^>f 


V 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


j^^-f** 


OLD-TIME  PICTURES 


SHEAVES   OF   RHYME. 


Author  of  "  JANUARY  AND  JUNE,"  "  LIFE  AND  SCENES  IN  THE  ARMY,"  etc 


SECOND     EDITION. 


CHICAGO: 
S.  C.  GRIGGS  &  COMPANY, 

1874. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  b 

S.  C.  GRIGGS  &  COMPANY, 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


TO    HER    FOR    WHOM    TWENTY    YEARS    HAVE    NOT    DIMMED    THE 

MEMORY  OF  THAT  LONG-GONE  DAY,  THIS 

LITTLE    BOOK     IS 

Most  Sffecttonattls  Inscrtkrti. 


623939 


PREFACE. 


SET  adrift  in  the  newspapers,  like  thistle-down  in 
the  Fall  wind,  a  few  poems  of  mine  have  "  lodged  "  at 
last  between  the  lids  of  a  book. 

Never  thinking  seriously  about  it  until  it  was  too 
late  to  think  at  all,  I  find  myself  fearing  that  their 
meaning  to  me  is  a  sort  of  personal  property  I  cannot 
make  over  to  anybody,  and  that  I  should  have  slipped 
them  in  among  the  leaves  of  the  Family  Record,  be 
tween  the  book  of  Malachi  and  the  Gospel  according 
to  St.  Matthew,  as  being  the  very  place  in  a  world  of 
sinners  about  the  safest  from  perusal. 

A  friend  once  sent  me  some  withered  pansies,  but 
he  brightened  and  humanized  the  faded  things  by 
writing  a  single  line :  "  From  the  grave  of  Hamlet, 


10  PREFACE. 

\ 
Prince  of  Denmark."     Ah,  how  beautiful  they  turned, 

and  what  treasures  they  became  ! 

Less  fortunate  than  the  pansies,  this  sheaf  of  rhymes 
has  nobody  to  write  the  single  line.  Only  this :  I  sus 
pect  one  or  two  of  them  of  being  better  than  I  once 
thought,  because  several  clever  people  have  stolen  and 
never  returned  them. 


THE     SHEAF. 


AN  OLD-TIME  PICTURE -  13 

THE  CHILD  AND  THE  STAR 38 

THANKSGIVING  52 

A  POET'S  LEGACY        -  56 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  AGE  -  61 

JUNE    -        -  63 

OCTOBER  -  74 

TORNADO  SUNDAY  ?8 
THE  SKYLARK  - 
BUNKER  HILL 

THE  OLD  VILLAGE  CHOIR  &9 

GOING  HOME       -        -  92 

THE  DEAD  GRENADIER   -  -                                         97 

RHYMES  OF  THE  RIVER  -  I02 

LAZY        -        -  I09 

DEARBORN  OBSERVATORY  -  II2 

JENNY  JUNE     -        -  Ir5 

BURNS'  CENTURY  SONG  -  IlS 

THE  COLORED  MARBLE  -  I22 

FLOWERS "        •  -  I23 


12  THE   SHEAF. 

THE  NEW  CRAFT  IN  THE  OFFING 

THE  VANE  ON  THE  SPIRE 

DECORATION  DAY 

A  WINTER  PSALM 

SAILING  OF  COLUMBUS         --- 

THE  CHRYSALIS 

THE  FLAG  -        - 

THE  HERO  OF  NEW  HAMBURG 

THE  GOSPEL  OF  THE  OAK 

THE  Two  JOHNS        - 

BEAUTIFUL  "  MAY  " 

THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS  -        - 

INDIAN  SUMMER 

THE  SHATTERED  RAINBOW         -- 

FIRE  AND  WATER    ---- 

"  ATLANTIC"       - 

CAVALRY  CHARGE    -  - 

FORT  DEARBORN  ._ 

THE  ISLE  OF  THE  LONG  AGO         - 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  ROBIN    


AN  OLD  -  TIME  PICTURE. 

JULY   4TH,    1776  —  JULY   4TH,    1873. 

T     ET  us  roll  back  the  world  on  its  axle  of  fire, 
•* — '  Let  us  halt,  if  we  can,  just  a  breath  or  two 

nigher 
The  sweet  simple' time  when  they  halved  every 

trouble, 
Ere  pinks  were  carnations  and  roses  all  double  ! 

We  will  watch  for  a  roof  with  a  slope  down  behind, 
Like  a  sun -bonnet  blown  partly  off  by  the  wind, 
Till  the  tresses  of  brown  turn  to  gold  one  by  one, 
As  they  shake  out  of  shadow  and  shine  in  the  sun  — 

For  a  chimney  as  broad  as  the  curb  of  a  well 
Where  the  ember-red  maple  leaves  eddied  and  fell, 
That  volcanic  plumed  up  with  its  volumes  of  smoke 
That  were  crimson  and  gold  when  day  brightened 
and  broke  ;  — 


14  AN  OLD-  TIME  PICTURE. 

For  a  neighborly  porch  with  the  brow  of  a  Greek 
That  will  make  you  as  welcome  as  if  it  could  speak, 
With  a  vine  that  runs  up  like  a  creature  alive, 
And  as  brisk  as  a  bee  that  is  bound  from  the  hive 
It  goes  rambling  about  with  inquisitive  leaves, 
And  then  swings  in  a  frolic  along  the  low  eaves  ;  — 

For  a  rusty-gray  curb,  round  a  rugged  stone  well, 
Where  with  dangle  of  bucket  the  sweep  rose  and 

feU 

O'er  the  disc  of  still  water,  a  silent  black  eye 
That  unsleeping,  unwinking,  is  watching  the  sky  ; 
Now  a  star  shines  along,  drops  a  beam  down  below, 
Now  a  drift  of  noon  cloud   sheds  a  fleck  of   its 

snow, 

Now  a  shadowy  face  smiling  up  to  the  brink 
Where  a  girl  smiling  down  has  forgotten  to  drink ; — 

For  the  hives  of  a  fashion  quaint,  classic,  and  old, 
Where  the  bees  went  and  came  with  their  burdens 

of  gold  — 

'T  was  an  African  village  of  straw -woven  cones 
Within  humming  range   of  those  myrtle-draped 

stones, 


AN   OLD-TIME  PICTURE.  15 

Of  two  borders  of  pinks,  Sweet    Williams   and 

thyme, 

That  led  out  to  the  gate  like  a  couplet  in  rhyme, — 
Of  the  pseony's  glow  and  the  prince's  own  feather — 
Of  the  four  -  o'clocks  timing  the  dullest  of  weather, 
Of  the  meek  little  asters,  Earth's  studies  for  stars, 
And  the  love -lies -a -bleeding  there  close  by  the 

bars,  — 

Of  the  languid  white  poppy  the  dream  -  angels  keep, 
With  its  quaint  -  covered  cup  of  the  powder  of 

sleep, 

And  sunflower  and  hollyhock,  stately  and  tall, 
And  the  cluster  of  lilacs  beside  the  gray  wall, 
And  the  daffodils,  columbines,  roses,  and  all 
That  were  kindred  of  Eve's  without  sinning  at 

all;  — 

For  the  flinty  old  fields  where  the  vicious -edged 

,    hoe 

Always  struck  out  a  weed  and  a  spark  at  a  blow ; — 
For  the  pastures  where  mulleins  and  butter  -  cups 

grew, 
And  the  white -legged  sheep  gnawed  the  summer 

all  through ;  — 


16  AN  OLD-  TIME  PICTURE. 

For  a  fringe  of  deep  woods  with  a  sugar  -  camp  in  it, 
And  the  memories  sweet  as  the  song  of  a  linnet ; 
And  the  drum  of  the  partridge  can  summon  my 

soul, 

Like  the  drum  of  a  drummer  -  boy  beating  the  roll ; 
Ah,  the  thought  of  the  "red -bird's  "  small  flicker 

of  fire 

Can  yet  startle  my  pulses  and  kindle  desire, — 
And  the  green,  plashy  place  where  the  slim  rushes 

grew, 
And  the  pendulum  reeds,  when  the  summer  winds 

blew, 

Set  the  bird  with  an  epaulette  swaying  and  swinging 
Till  the  bobolink's  bells  fell  to  rocking  and  ringing ! 
Ah,  the  fire  of  the  camp  as  it  threaded  the  trees, 
And  the  smoke  like  a  canopy  swung  by  the  breeze, 
And  the  young  moons  of  April  and  young  girls  of 

old, 
How  they  flock  to  the  heart  like  the  lambs  to  the 

fold; 
Ah,  the  dainty  white  flowers  with  their  feet  in  the 

loam, 
And  as  clean  as  an  angel  a  minute  from  home !  — 


AN  OLD-TIME  PICTURE.  17 

For  the  strawberry  meadow  so  haunted  with  bees, 
Where  the  boys  and  the  girls  crept  about  on  their 

knees 

And  became  —  of  each  other  —  devout  devotees ; 
Where  the  monarchs  of  twilight  for  ages  had  stood 
And  pronounced  benediction  with  branches  abroad, 
Hark,  the  stroke  of  an  axe  like  the  tick  of  a  clock : 
There  's  a  burst  of  broad  sunshine,  a  crushing  of 

flowers ; 

Hark,  the  crash  of  the  giants  with  shiver  and  shock : 
There  's  the  chime  of  the  wilderness  striking  the 

hours! 
Lo,  their  monuments  here  that  the  mowers  mow 

round 
With  a  glint  of  the  scythes  that  are  rasping  the 

ground ;  — 

For  the  quilt  of  a  field  where  the  cradlers  went  in, 
And  their  free  swinging  sweep  seemed  as  easy  as 

sin ; 

On  the  skeleton  fingers  the  grain  was  laid  down 
Like  the  Babes  in  the  Wood,  far  away  from  the 

town, 
B 


18  AN  OLD-  TIME   PICTURE. 

i 

And  the  rakers  and  binders  came  rollicking  after, 
With  their  heads  thatched  with  straw  and  their 

hearts  full  of  laughter — 

And  perhaps  the  old  farmer  of  Pomfret  is  one, 
With  a  ring  to  his  jokes  like  the  flash  of  his  gun  ; 
And  perhaps  Molly  Stark  shades  her  eyes  with 

her  hand, 
As  she  watches  the  boys  that  are  sweeping  the 

land ;  — 

For  a  sky  -  line  that  rises  and  falls  like  the  deep, 
Lies  as  light  on  the  hills  with  its  tremulous  sweep 
As  a  mantle  of  blue  on  an  infant  asleep  ! 

And  the  watch  is  all  over  —  the  picture  is  given, 
And  the  scene  is  ringed  in  with  a  scollop  of  heaven. 

The  wide  door  on  the  latch  opening  full  to  the 

south 

Is  as  sweet  as  the  smile  of  an  eloquent  mouth. 
When  you  swing  on  its  hinges  that  neighborly  door 
A  broad  carpet  of  sunshine  unrolls  on  the  floor, 
And  a  bee  and  a  butterfly,  freed  from  the  fold  — 
And  they  must  have  been  in  it  before  it  was  rolled — 


AN  OLD-TIME  PICTURE.  19 

Like  two  figures  escaped  from  a  tapestry  loom, 
Are  just  drifting  about  in  the  rambling  old  room. 

There  's  a  touch  of  green  caraway  charming  the  air, 
There 's  a  low,  loving  ceiling,  with  a  hook  here 

and  there, 
Whence  festoons  of  dried  apples  and  pumpkins 

have  hung 
That  the  "  bees  "  in  checked  aprons  had  quartered 

and  strung ; 

There  's  a  spotless  white  table,  a  broad  open  palm, 
That  has  grown  with  the  mouths  like  the  swell  of 

a  psalm  — 

'T  is  a  small  hand  of  Providence,  laden  and  spread, 
That  has  answered  the  prayer  of  three  ages  for 

bread ! 

There  's  a  thrush  on  the  linden,  a  goldfinch  adrift, 

And  a  lark  going  up  on  a  musical  lift ; 

There  's  a  girl  in  the  garden,  a  "  fellow  "  to  love 

her, 

And  a  robin  in  song  in  the  maple  above  her ; 
There  's  a  tin  horn  in  tether  adorning  the  wall, 
And  its  twang,  sharp  and  nasal,  is  sweeter  than  all ! 


20  AN  OLD-  TIME  PICTURE. 

There  's  a  box  on  the  window  -  sill,  awkward  and 

square, 

"  Live  -  forever  "  defiant  is  clustering  there  : 
Ah,   the  true   "  live  -  f orevers  "  are  haunting  the 

place, 
And  are  thronging  my  soul  with  ineffable  grace. 

Let  us  rummage  the  drawers  and   the  desolate 

"till" 

For  the  snowy  white  cap,  like  a  lily  in  frill, 
And  the  string  of  gold  dew-drops  that  beaded  a 

neck, 

And  a  bit  of  a  dress  in  the  blue  and  white  check, 
And  the  scolloped  Vandyke  that  the  grandmothers 

wore. 

And  the  short  -  gown  and  petticoat  never  seen  more, 
And  the  green  silk  calash,  like  the  top  of  a  chaise, 
Thpy  could  throw  back  at  will  in  the  dull,  cloudy 

days 

And  then  lift  it  again  when  the  sky  was  a -blaze  ; 
And  the  faded  red  "  sampler,"  the  work  of  Jane 

Ann, — 
You  can  see  with  your  heart  how  the  alphabet  ran  — 


AN  OLD-  TIME  PICTURE.  21 

And  the  year  and  her  year:  "  37,  —  <&&#  &&V&H.J 
And   no   older   to-day,  for   she  went  young   to 
Heaven  ! 


The  old  room  has  grown  human  in  all  the  long 

years  — 
Has  been  brightened  by  happiness,  hallowed  by 

tears  ; 
By  the  brides  on  the  hearth  who  will  bless  it  no 

more, 

By  the  cradles  kept  rocking  like  boats  on  the  shore. 
And  that  old-fashioned  hearth  with  a  flare  to  the 

jamb, 

And  a  throat  full  of  midnight  to  swallow  the  flame, 
And  a  crane,   like  a  witch's  long  slender  black 

tongue, 

In  the  yawn  of  red  fire  horizontally  swung  ; 
And  a  brace  of  tough  fire  -  dogs,  their  feet  in  the 

coals, 
Looking  out  from  beneath  the  broad  volume  that 

rolls 

Like  the  burst  of  a  sunset  in  glory  and  gold, 
That  the  touch  of  no  Titian  could  ever  have  told. 


22  AN  OLD  -  TIME  PICTURE, 

Ah,  the  Arctic  old  hearts  are  alive  that  remember 
All  that  splendor  of  fire  in  the  perished  December, 
And  the  flicker  and  flash  of  the  musketry  rattle 
When  the  hemlock  and  birch  blazed  away  in  sham 

battle, 

And  the  sturdier  glow  of  the  hickory  bank, 
Reinforced  with  rock -maple  in  front  and  in  flank, 
When  the  surges  rolled  up  and  the  rubies  dropped 

down 
Like  the  gems  that  are  struck  from  a  conquered 

king's  crown, 
Till  the  rush  -  bottomed  chairs  falling  back  in  good 

order, 

As  the  leaves  flush  apart  in  a  wild  rose's  border, 
All  around  the  horizon  the  cider  and  song, 
And  the  Baldwins  and  Greenings  went  circling 

along, 

And  the  touching  of  hands  and  the  whisper  aside, 
All  the  charms  that  survived  it  when  Paradise  died ! 
With  the  thought  of  that  ingleside  Eden  is  near, 
Long  deserted  and  cozy  old  corners  of  cheer  ! 

See  the  jambs  worn  away  by  the  shovel  and  tongs, 
As  the  marble  at  Mecca  was  kissed  by  the  throngs 


AN  OLD-TIME  PICTURE.  23 

That  just  pressed  their  live  lips  to  the  lips  of  the 

stone 

'Till  marble  with  mortal  had  blended  and  gone. 
Ah,  those  long  iron  fingers  to  handle  the  fire 
Were  not  made  by  the  maker  of  Amphion's  lyre, 
But  the  sturdy  old  smith  at  the  forks  of  the  road 
Smote  them  out  of  the   bar  as  it  sparkled  and 

glowed, 

Like  the  besom  of  Lucifer  flourished  the  brand 
'Till  he  swept  out'the  dark  with  his  angry  right 

hand, — 

And  the  kiss  of  the  sledges  fell  fiercely  and  fast, 
And  the  fingers  were  fashioned  and  finished  at  last ; 
With  a  sigh  of  relief  they  were  plunged  in  the 

water, 
And  the  tongs  were  baptized  rough  Vulcan's  rude 

daughter. 

Ah,  the  print  of  his  hammer  is  plainer  to-day 
Than  his  name  that  they  graved  on  a  tablet  of  gray ! 

There 's  the  ghost  of  a  clock,  with  its  body  all  gone, 
Where  it  stood  in  a  corner  so  ghastly  and  wan, 
With  a  pallor  of  face  that  so  haunted  the  wall 
You  felt  like  enshrouding  the  shape  in  a  pall. 


24  AN  OLD-  TIME  PICTURE. 

It  was  wound  with  a  string,  and  its  shadowy  beat 
Fell  a  faint  and  deliberate  vision  of  feet. 
How  it  marched  through  the  night  with  an  echo- 
less  tread, 
Like  unshrived  and  unshodden  impenitent  dead  ! 

On  the  mantel  two  candlesticks,  iron  and  old, 
That  have  lifted  their  glimmer  long  winters  untold. 
Ah,  the  slender  white  shafts,  with  their  finish  of 

flame, 
That  were  lighted  by  those  that  old  monuments 

name, 

And  the  snuffers  served  up  on  a  salver  of  tin, 
When  the  crickets  came  out  and  the  neighbors 

came  in ! 

On  the  wall  hangs  the  almanac,  ledger  of  time, — 
At  the  tail  of  each  page  is  a  ringlet  of  rhyme, 
At  the  top  is  the  sun,  with  a  flare  to  his  hair, 
And  the  moon,  from  the  shield  to  the  sickle,  is 

there, 

And  along  the  brief  column's  zodiacal  blaze 
Is  the  roll  of  the  age's  battalion  of  days 


AN  OLD  -  TIME  PICTURE.  25 

On  the  stand  lies  the  Bible,  that  Day  -  Book  so  broad 
It  embodies  the  reckoning  of  mortals  with  God. 
When  the  last  of  fourteen — just  the  lines  in  a  son 
net ! — 

Is  first  seated  at  table,  a  twenty  -  pound  man, 
They  just  swing  down  the  Book  and  enthrone  him 

upon  it, 
And  it  brings  him  in  range  with  the  platter  and 

pan. 

On  its  cover  the  razor  is  cautiously  strapped, 
And  within  it  the  route  of  old  Moses  is  mapped, 
With   the   noblest  of  Sermons  and  sweetest  of 

Psalms, 

And  the  greenest  of  cedars  and  grandest  of  palms, 
While  Saint  Matthew  and  Malachi  guard  the  old 

story 

Of  the  son  that  was  born  and  the  sire  gone  to  glory — 
Of  the  twain  that  were  one,  with  an  altar  above  it — 
Of  the  darling  that  died,  with  a  willow  to  love  it ; 
'Tis  the  Blotter  of  tears  for  the  mother  and  wife, 
And  belongs  to  the  Ledger  and  Day  -  Book  of  Life ! 

On  the  gnarled  wooden  hooks,  over  mantle  and  all, 
Is  a  battered  Queen's  Arm  at  a  trail  on  the  wall ; 


26  AN  OLD-  TIME  PICTURE. 

And  that  filbert  -  brown  gun  Saratoga  has  heard  ; 
It  has  come  to  the  shoulder  at  WASHINGTON'S 

word — 
What  was  saucy  to  kings  is  as  dumb  as  a  sword ! 

In  the  blessed  home -room,  and  that  dreamy  June 

day, 

On  the  hearth  were  two  children  together  at  play : 
One,  a  shrivelled  gray  man,  shrunk  away  in  his 

wear, 

One,  a  boy  like  a  distaff,  with  tow  for  his  hair  ; 
And  one  brought  as  he  could  the  dead  embers 

together, 
And  one  blew  for  his  life  like  a  blast  of  March 

weather. 

But  the  grizzled  old  boy  was  a  -  shiver  in  June, 
And  his  mate's  puckered  lips  sadly  lacking  a  tune. 

He  never  heard  the  birds  outside, 
He  never  felt  the  drifting  tide 
Of  song  and  fragrance  mingled  so, 
As  strangely  blent  they  float  along, 
You  think  you  hear  the  roses  blow, 
And  smell  the  robin's  scented  song. 


AN  OLD-  TIME   PICTURE.  27 

Ah,  the  pulse  that  is  dull  with  a  dying  desire 
Can  be  warmed  never  more  by  an  old  kitchen  fire  ! 
But  the  shrivelled  gray  man  dreamed  his  way  back 

to  life  ; 

In  the  howl  of  December  he  heard  the  wild  strife, 
When  the  grand  ragged  regiments  stood  to  the 

shock, 
And  the  troopers  came  down  like  the  wave  on  the 

rock. 

So  all  things  around  helped  his  dreaming  along, 
And  they  rallied  his  heart  like  young  Hopkinson's 

song. 

E'en  a  kettle  of  samp  that  was  lazily  swung 
On  a  hook's  smutty  finger,  contentedly  hung, 
With  its  bubbles  of  gold,  as  they  shattered  and 

broke, 

Made  him  think  of  the  far-away  musketry  smoke, 
When  the  field  was  red  -  edged  with  the  troopers' 

red  drift, 

Like  a  border  of  cloud  with  a  ray  in  the  rift, 
And  the  Georges  in  surges  of  scarlet  did  run 
Like  a  line  of  shore  -  billows  pursued  by  the  sun  ! 
And  the  lift  of  the  lid  at  the  touch  of  the  steam 
Was  as  measured  and  slow  as  a  drum  in  a  dream ! 


28  ^'V  OLD-  TIME  PICTURE. 

Of  the  boys  on  the  hearth  one  was  yet  on  his  knees, 
When  the  calm  ruffled  up  with  a  breath  of  a  breeze, 
And  a  posy  of  girls  blossomed  into  the  room, 
All  the  threads  of  their  talk  like  the  woof  in  a 

loom. 

The  old  man  looked  round  in  a  querulous  way 
On  the  exquisite  grouping,  as  if  he  should  say, 
"  Don't  you  s - e  - e  ? —  Here  I  am,  in  my  ninetieth 

year ! ' 

And  he  hollowed  his  hand  till  it  fitted  his  ear. 
"  Oh,  my  grandfather  dear,"  cried  a  willowy  girl, — 
And  a  pair  of  forefingers  nimbly  ran  up  a  curl  — 
"I   was   saying   'next   week  is  the  FOURTH  OF 

JULY.'  " 

Then  the  faded  gray  eye  had  a  dawn  like  the  sky, 
Then  the  drowsy  old  heart  gave  an  audible  knock, 
And  he  said,  "I  will  pick  the  old  flint  in  the 

lock  — 
"Ah,  «he  never  missed  fire  —  there's  a  spark  in 

her  yet, 

•*  And  the  rattling  old  talk  she  can  never  forget! " 
Then  the  poor  bended  figure  grew  stately  and  tall, 
For  again  he  was  hearing  the  bugler's  old  call ; 


AN  OLD-TIME  PICTURE.  29 

The  one  hand  was  uplifted,  the  other  was  laid 
On   the   thistle-down  head  with  whom  he  had 

played, 

And  he  murmured,  "  My  boy,  in  whatever  you  do 
"  Be  as  right  and  as  ready — the  gun  is  for  you  — 
"  She 's  a  quick-witted  jade,  but  she  's  trusty  and 

true." 
Then  a  hush  like  a  ghost  that  is  here  without 

coming, 
Set  the  hearts  of  the  maidens   all  halting   and 

drumming, 
And  the  breeze  held  its  breath  that  was  rilling  the 

room. 

'T  was  as  if  one  had  spoken  direct  from  the  tomb, 
With  no  charnel  to  rend  and  no  coffin  to  rive, 
And  the  First  Resurrection  had  found  them  alive ! 

And  the  day  broke  at  last,  with  its  bunting  and 

thunder, 
And  the  eyes  of  the  Thistle  -  down  rounded  with 

wonder ; 

A  big  anvil  was  pounding  away  in  the  road, 
From  the  ridge  of  the  barn  a  red  banneret  flowed ; 


30  AN  OLD-  TIME  PICTURE. 

On  the  pine  in  the  yard  perched  an  eagle  benighted, 
By  a  hand -breadth  of  stars  in  blue  calico  lighted. 
And  the  "trainers"  went  by  in  white  legs  and 

blue  breasts, 
All  their  plumes  tall  and  straight,  and  with  blood 

on  their  crests, 

And  the  riflemen  green,  in  their  fringes  and  frocks, 
"  Shutting  pan  "  down  the  line  like  the  ticking  of 

clocks ; 
And  the  troopers  rode  on  in  fierce  coat  and  fur 

frown 
That  had  covered  a  bear,  till  it  burdened  them 

down. 

| 

With  the  ruffle  and  roll  of  the  double  drum  corps, 
And  the  fifes  warbling  up  in  the  rumble  and  roar, 
Like  a  bird  half  bewildered  caught  out  in  a  storm, 
Lo,  there  stood  on  the  threshold  the  shrivelled 

gray  form, 
With  the  battered  Queen's  Arm — ah,  the  darling 

old  girl ! 
And  then,  just  as  the  wind  blew  the  flag  out  of 

furl, 


AN  OLD-TIME   PICTURE.  31 

He  was  up  with  the  musket  and  rattling  away : 
It  was  three  and  three  more  for  the  Deed  and  the 

Day, 
And  three  rounds  for  the  comrades  that  lay  where 

they  fell, 

In  the  front  of  the  battle,  the  border  of  hell; 
And  three  guns  for  the  Flag,  and  a  toll  for  the  dead 
Old  Commander  who  rode  in  the  tempest  and  said, 
"  Blaze  away  there,  my  men !  Are  you  saving  your 

lead?" 
So  the  clock  struck  thirteen — 'twas  an  old-time 

salute, 
And  the  smoke  rolled  away,  and  the  musket  was 

mute. 

And  the  shadows  were  traveling  eastwardly  all, 
They  were  shed  from  the  trees  in  a  lengthening 

faU, 

They  were  reaching  so  lovingly  over  the  land, 
And  were  waving  so  strange    when   the  forests 

were  fanned, 

You  would  fancy  them  fingers  of  pitiful  Night, 
That  were  gleaning  the  fields  for  a  handful  of  light; 


32  AN  OLD -TIME  PICTURE. 

And  they  lay  like  a  hand  on  the  Veteran's  head, 
And  he  sat  in  his  chair  till  the  heavens  were  red, 
And  the  musket  and  Thistle-down  lay  at  his  feet, 
And  his  years  were  in  sheaf  like  a  bundle  of  wheat ; 
He  had  grounded  his  arms,  and  the  Soldier  was 
dead! 

Ah,  the  world  never  halted,  but  trampled  right 

on  — 

Not  so  much  as  a  pansy  for  him  that  had  gone , 
And  the  grasses  grew  rank  and  the  tablet  grew 

small 

Till  the  name  on  the  stone  had  no  meaning  at  all, 
And  the  FOURTH  OF  JULY  yet  revolved  like  the 

Light 
As  it  flashes  to  sea,  intermitting  the  night. 

There  was  growling  of  thunder  low  down  in  the 

sky, 

And  the  crown  of  calamity  lifted  on  high, 
Every  thorn  was  crushed   home  upon  Liberty's 

brow  — 
Valley  Forge's  own  imprint  had  bloodied  its  snow ! 


AN  OLD-  TIME  PICTURE.  33 

Then  the  trumpet  of  rally !     The  terrible  tramp ! 
The  blue  skies  had  all  fallen !     The  world  was  a 

camp  ! 
Then  the  columns  spread  wide  like  the  limbs  of  a 

larch, 
And  grew  grander  and  broader.     The  world  was 

a  -  march ! 

Then  the  crashing  of  cannon  as  batteries  wheeled, 
And  the  shock  of  the   legions!     The  world  was 

a -field! 

And  the  bullets  flew  fiercer  and  farther  and  faster 
In  the  storm  equinoctial  of  death  and  disaster, 
Till  the  gardens  of  Eden  were  mantled  in  gloom 
And  the  world  was  a  Ramah  and  Rachel  at  home ! 

And  again  it  was  June.     The  porch  door   was 

swung  wide, 

And  the  sunshine  rolled  in  with  a  wonderful  tide 
Of  the  breath  of  the  birds  and  the  blossoms  outside. 
Framed  by  threshold  and  lintel,  a  picture  of  grace, 
Stood  a  model  of  manhood,  his  heart  in  his  face ; 
And  the  fellow  was  made  on  an  exquisite  plan, 
With  the  eye  of  a  woman,  the  mouth  of  a  man; 
c 


34  AN  OLD-  TIME  PICTURE, 

And  his  mother  stood  near  in  white  apron  and  arm — 
And  her  silver  -  white  hair  did  her  beauty  no  harm  — 
With  a  wide  maple  bowl  where  she  patted  and 

rolled 

With  a  broad  wooden  ladle  an  ingot  of  gold, 
And  then  lifted  the  ball  to  a  platter  of  delf ; 
It  was  Thistle-down's  mother  and  Thistle-down's 

self! 
While   her  locks   were   turned   white,   his   were 

deep'ning  to  brown  — 

Then  she  nervously  said,  "  What's  the  news  from 

the  town  ?" 
"  Oh,  my  mother,"  he  cried,  "  there's  a  call  for 

more  men ! 
"And  they've  made  it  before  —  I  can't  hear  it 

again! 
"  And  no  more  't  would  mean  me  had  they  called 

out  my  name !" 
And  his  eyes  were  in  tears,  though  his  cheeks  were 

aflame. 

"  Did  they  lie  when  they  said  that  a  man-child  was 

born? 
"  It  could  never  be  me,  and  I  hid  in  the  corn !  — 


AN  OLD- TIME  PICTURE.  35 

"  All  the  boys  march  by  bugle,  and  I  by  that  horn ! " 
And  he  turned  back  a  thumb  at  the  pitiful  thing, 
Where  it  hung  to  the  wall  by  its  halter  of  string — 
"Oh,  my  mother,  say  'yes,'"  and  he  bent  low 

above  her, 
And  he  swallowed  his  heart  like  a  pleading  young 

lover ; 
"  Do  you  mind  of  that  FOURTH  in  old  grandfather's 

time  ! 
"  'T  was  the  half  of  a  couplet  —  I  '11  finish  the 

rhyme." 

Then  she  lifted  her  face  with  a  shiver  of  pain, 
For  the  surge  from  her  heart  had  rolled  back  from 

her  brain, 
And  she  said,  "  The  Lord  gave,  and  —  "  "  Oh,  no," 

he  broke  in, 

"  Let  the  sentence  be  ended  right  where  you  begin. 
"  Oh,  not  '  taken  away '  but  just  borrowed  awhile  ;" 
And  then  murmuring  low,  with  a  far-away  smile, 
"  I  '11  come  back  in  the  blue,  and  we  '11  bless  Him 

together, 
"And  well   talk  it  all  over, —  this  dark  heavy 

weather. 


36  AN  OLD-TIME  PICTURE. 

"  I  will  go  —  it  is  duty  —  the  way  the  thing  looks  ;" 

And  he  took  down  the  gun  from  the  brown  wooden 
hooks, 

And  he  said,  "I  WILL  KEEP  MY  OLD  GRAND 
FATHER'S  FOURTH  ! " 

And  he  blent  with  the  blue  of  the  broad  azure 
North. 

Then  the  June  came  again,  and  the  bee  and  the 

bird, 
And   the  Thistle-down  too,   but  he   uttered  no 

word, 
Though  he  came  in  the  blue,  as  he  said  he  would 

come, 
But  with  wailing  of  fife  and  the  moaning  of  drum. 

And  the  mother  sat  still  in  the  sunny  old  porch, 
And  her  eyes  had  burned  down  like  a  perishing 

torch, 
But  she   took   up   the   verse   at  the  very  same 

word: 
"  And    has    taken    away,   and    be    blessed   the 

Lord!" 


AN  OLD-TIME   PICTURE.  37 

Do  you  think  that  the  FOURTH  OF  JULY  can  go 

down 
While   a   Thistle  -  blow  lives  long  enough  to  be 

brown  ? 

It  will  yet  be  a  child  at  an  hundred  years  old ! 
Lo  !  the  columns  of  Centuries  grandly  unfold  ! 
Rear  rank,  open  order !  and  front  rank,  about 

face  ! 

And  the  Ages  salute  as  they  stand  in  their  place, 
And  the  DAY  passes  through  with  an  eloquent 

grace  ! 
See   it   shine  down  the  lines  with  unquenchable 

light  - 
Good   morn,  Boy  in   Blue!      Continental,  GOOD 

NIGHT! 


THE  CHILD  AND    THE  STAR. 

,  feel  in  your  bosom,  my  darling, 
If  the  flutter  is  there  as  of  old, 
The  pant  of  Sterne's  captive,  the  starling, 
When  this  old  -  fashioned  story  is  told. 
Oh,  the  days  sparkling  up  to  the  rim 

That  bounds  the  one  world  by  the  other ! 
Oh,  your  heart  even  full  to  the  brim 

With  love  like  the  love  of  your  mother ! 
When  you  knew  nothing  more  about  sorrow  or  sin 
Than  the  buttercups  knew  that  she  held  to  your 

chin, 
While  she  watched  with  a  smile  your  small  secret 

unfold, 
As  it  tinted  the  white  with  a  glimmer  of  gold  ! 

We  stood  in  the  pasture  together 

With  the  clover  -  breath  over  our  heads, 

Right  down  from  the  Lord  came  the  weather, 
Right  up  went  the  larks  from  their  beds ; 


THE   CHILD  AND    THE   STAR.  39 

And  we  longed  for  a  goldfinch's  billow 

As  it  rode  the  invisible  flood  — 
An  oriole  swung  from  a  willow, 

And  the  daisies  were  bowing  to  God ! 
But  the  year  was  a  harp,  and  like  David  the  king's, 
And  the  graver  the  cadence  the  longer  the  strings  — 
One  by  one  went  the  days,  growing  briefer  and 

fewer, 
And  we  told  them  all  off,  and  no  tale  could  be 

truer, — 
So  we  watched  out  the  time  with  no  thought  of  a 

sigh, 
For  our  hearts  danced  and  sang,  "  Merry  Christmas 

is  nigh  ! " 

Oh,  honey-bee,  gypsy  of  summer, 

There  's  a  flower  that  is  sweeter  than  thine  ! 
For  thee  there  's  an  Angel  for  comer, 

With  the  sweep  of  a  pinion  divine. 
Oh,  Day  on  the  hem  of  December  ! 

And  oh,  Star  of  old  Bethlehem's  brood  ! 
Shine  down  in  my  heart  like  an  ember 

With  a  glow  from  the  altar  of  God. 


40  THE   CHILD  AND    THE    STAR. 

Oh,  fairest  of  flowers  in  the  garden 

That  dost  blossom  the  brightest  and  last. 
When  our  Eden  has  furloughed  its  warden, 

And  the  roses  and  lilies  are  past ; 
When  Euroclydon's  fingers  so  sculpture  the  snow, 
That  you  hardly  can  tell  if  the  sleeper  below 
Is  just  waiting  for  Spring,  or  the  Trumpet  to  blow ; 
When  the  marble  in  motion  and  the  Parian  blend, 
'Till  the  sexton  must  say  where  "  God's  acre  " 

should  end, 
And  'mid  these  from  the  quarry  and  those  from  the 

cloud, 
Must  declare  which  they  are  that  are  wearing  a 

shroud  ! 

Sit  here  by  my  side  like  a  lover, 

Let  us  turn  down  the  flare  of  the  lamp, 
And  talk  the  dear  story  all  over 

'Till  around  us  the  shadows  encamp. 
As  we  did  in  the  days  of  the  olden, 

We  will  light  a  dim  candle  again. 
For  the  blaze  of  a  chandelier  golden 

Never  shone  from  the  Now  to  the  Then. 


THE   CHILD   AND    THE   STAR.  41 

We  will  blow  a  dull  coal  to  its  glowing, 

As  we  blew  it  long  ages  ago, 
While  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  is  sowing 

With  His  tempest  out  there  in  the  snow. 

Do  you  see  that  gray  roof,  strangely  drifted  with 

leaves, 

And  the  moss  all  along  on  its  low  northern  eaves  ? 
'Tis  as  if  Robin  Redbreast,  on  duty  again, 
Would  have  covered  my  dead  from  the  vision  of 

men. 

Each  side  of  the  gate  a  bold  Lombardy  stands, 
As  stately  as  warders,  as  graceful  as  wands, 
That  I  watched  long  ago,  while  they  swept  the 

blue  sky 

All  clear  of  the  clouds  that  were  loitering  by  ! 
I  there  in  my  cradle  slowly  rocking  and  dream- 

ing^ 
They  clearing  the  road  where   the  angels  were 

gleaming. 

Now  I  pause  on  the  threshold  the  loving  feet  trod 
That  have  walked  upon  thorns,  that  have  gone  up 

to  God  — 


42  THE   CHILD  AND    THE   STAR. 

All  traced  here  and  there  on  threshold  or  stair 
But  the  one  pair  that  left  not  a  print  anywhere  — 
Ah,  the  little  bare  feet  that  had  never  been  shod  ! 

Oh,  heart  of  the  house,  my  dead  Mother, 

Give  your  boy  the  old  greeting  once  more 
That  I  never  have  heard  from  another 

Since  Death  was  let  in  at  the  door. 
I  can  reach  up  my  hand  to  the  ceiling 

Of  the  rooms  once  the  world's  greater  part  — 
Who  wonders  I  cannot  help  feeling 

They  have  narrowed  to  fit  to  my  heart ! 

Ah,  these  little  green  panes  let  the  morning  in  late 
But  it  never  was  stained  by  the  emerald  gate  — 
And  the  clock  has  run  down  in  its  desolate  place, — 
How  we  counted  it  in  with  its  moon  of  a  face, 
When  we  said    "  Four  were  born  but  the  clock  is 

alive," 

And  the  household  forever  was  numbered  at  five. 
And  dumb  is  the  bell  that  did  toll  oif  the  hours 
And  the  boys  and  the  blessings,  the  birds  and  the 

flowers, 


THE    CHILD  AND    THE   STAR.  48 

And  dead  are  the  hands  that  were  lifted  a  space 
When  the  noon  seemed  to  halt  while  the  father 

said  grace  ! 
Here 's  the  place  on  the  jamb  where  we  "  reckoned  " 

at  night, 
There 's  a  mark  on  the  wall  where  we  measured 

our  height, 
And  a  line  on  the  sill  where  the  sunbeam  swung 

round 
Like   a   ship   on   a  bar,   as    'twas    nearing    the 

ground. 
Ah,  how  slowly  it  crept  when  some  day  was  to  - 

morrow ! 
Ah,  how  swiftly  it  went  I  have  learned   to  my 

sorrow ! 
Oh,  if  Gibeon's  sun  could  have  shone  there  of 

old, 
And  burnished  the  sill  with  unperishing  gold ! 

The  air  is  alive  with  a  shiver  — 

There 's  a  wandering  chill  in  the  room  — 

There's  a  foot  that  has  forded  the  river — 
There 's  a  hand  feels  for  mine  from  a  tomb ! 


44  THE  CHILD  AND    THE   STAR. 

I  take  it  in  silence,  unshrinking, 

And  I  warm  it  again  in  my  grasp, 
There  is  nothing  of  sadness  in  thinking 

Two  worlds  may  have  met  in  the  clasp. 
My  heart  strangely  longs  as  I  linger, 

To  be  decked  with  some  darling  old  word, 
Be  clasped  as  a  ring  clasps  a  finger 

By  a  trinket  my  boyhood  had  heard — 
Some  fragment  of  speech  by  love  broken, 

As  the  emblem  was  broken  by  Christ, 
That,  passed  round  the  homestead  in  token 

Would  a  soul  from  a  sod  have  enticed ! 

Ah,  the  chimney  '  draws '  still !     It  is  drawing  my 

heart, 

And  that  rudest  of  things  ever  fashioned  by  art 
Does  so  kindle  my  soul  with  intensest  desire 
To  become  as  a  child  and  see  faces  in  fire, 
That  I  never  can  wonder  the  curling  blue  smoke, 
As  dull  water  was  wine  when  Divinity  spoke, 
Always  turned  into  crimson  the  instant  it  broke 
Like  a  glory  unrolled  into  sunshine  and  air 
And  then  floated  abroad  like  an  archangel's  hair ! 
For  that  chimney  was  ever  the  top  of  the  stair 


THE    CHILD  AND    THE   STAR.  45 

Where  my  Angel  came  down  in  the  dear  Christmas 

Eve; 

Oh,  set  back  the  old  clock  and  still  let  me  believe 
That  the  saint  of  my  childhood,  Saint  Nicholas 

came 

Down  that  tunnel  of  glory,  the  route  of  the  flame ! 
Here  the  stockings  were  swung  in  their  red,  white, 

and  blue, 

All  fashioned  to  feet  that  were  light  as  the  dew, 
For  they  walked  upon  flowers  without  crushing  a 

bud, 
That  have  trampled  the  flint  'till  it  blushes  with 

blood. 
Ah,  the  fragrant  old  faith  when  we  watched  the 

cold  gray 

Reluctantly  line  the  dim  border  of  day, 
When  we  braved  the  bare  floor  with  our  little  bare 

feet — 

No  shrine  to  a  pilgrim  was  ever  so  sweet. 
When  each  heart  and  each  stocking  was  burdened 

with  bliss  — 

On  the  verge  of  two  worlds  there  is  nothing  like  this 
But  a  mother's  last  smile  and  a  lover's  first  kiss  ! 


46  THE   CHILD  AND    THE   STAR. 

"Merry  Christmas,"  we  cried,  and  in  answer  to 

prayer, 
The  glad  greeting  came  back  like  a  gush  of  June 

air, 
That  had  lurked  out  the  night  in  those  bosoms  of 

theirs 
To  waylay  us  at  dawn  when  we  stole  down  the 

stairs. 

God  pity  the  man  who  has  naught  to  remember, 
With  no  heart  anywhere  if  not  in  December, 
Who  abandons  the  Cross  because  Romans  adore  it, 
And  yet  longs  for  the  crown  that  is  carried  before  it ; 
Who  declaring  the  birth  -  day  of  Christ  is  uncertain 
Would  let  down  on  the  Manger  Oblivion's  cur 
tain — 

Unheeding  the  birth  of  the  Heir  to  the  Throne 
While  he  tells  off  the  years,  and  then  honors  his 

own! 
Shuts  the  door  on  the  angels   commissioned  by 

Heaven 

To  belong  to  the  children  for  one  blessed  even, 
Locks  out  of  their  hearts  the  invisible  land, 
And  tarnishes  time  with  the  touch  of  his  hand. 


THE   CHILD  AND    THE   STAR.  47 

Where  the  birds  had  the  freedom  of  window  and 

eaves, 
And  the  walls  were  all  garnished  with  Bethlehem's 

sheaves, 
The  bright  straw  with  its  amber  bestrewing  the 

floor, 

The  great  eyes  of  the  oxen  like  lamps  at  the  door, 
And  their  breath  clouding  up  the  dim  air  of  the 

place 

As  if  censers  were  swinging  round  altars  of  grace, 
Was  the  PRINCE  of  all  worlds  in  humility  born, 
Who  created  the  Christmas  and  crowned  the  new 

morn. 

There  were  ANGELS  without  but  a  flash  from  the 

throne, 
With  the  flow  of  their  robes  as  two  mornings  in 

one, 

For  those  angels  without  brought  their  glory  along, 
And  they  sang  to  the  planet  its  first  Christmas 

Song. 

The  Star  in  the  East  took  its  place  in  the  choir, 
While  the  Seraph  sang  alto  the  Angels  sang  air, 


48  THE   CHILD  AND    THE   STAR. 

And  they  said :  "  Unto  God  all  the  glory  be  given !" 
Ere  it  ended  on  earth  it  had  mounted  to  heaven  — 
And  they  said,  and  the  cadence  is  lingering  still, 
"  Be  His  peace  evermore  to  the  men  of  good  will !" 

There  were  SHEPHERDS  hard  by  when  the  carol 

arose, 
And  they  came  as  they  were,  in  their  every  -  day 

clothes  ; 

All  above  in  the  blue  lay  the  Lord's  shining  sheep, 
And  below  in  the  green  were  their  own  fast  asleep  ; 
And  their  hearts  of  themselves  just  beginning  to  sing 
What  had  fluttered  to  earth  like  a  lark  with  one 

wing, 
But  the  anthem's  grand  surge  swept  it  up  to  the 

King  ! 
And  that  first  Christmas  Party  stood  out  in  the 

moon 
As  they  watched  the  transfigured  and  glorified 

tune. 

And  the  Magi  were  seeking  the  Christmas  that  day, 
And  the  Star  went  before  them  and  blazoned  the 
way  — 


THE   CHILD  AND    THE   STAR.  49 

Ah,  the  children  and  Christmas  together  belong, 
As  the  melody  marries  the  words  of  a  song 
That  can  float  us  right  up  where  the  Seraphim 

throng. 

With  their  hands  in  a  tremble  the  Magi  unfold 
All  their  treasures  of  myrrh  and  their  tokens  of  gold, 
And  they  swept  the  brown  manger  with  beards 

like  the  drift, 
As  the  cloud  turns  to  snow  with  the  moon  in  the 

rift, 

And  they  led  off  the  world  with  their  first  Christ 
inas  Gift. 

And  the  Star  and  the  Manger,  the  Carol  and  Child 
Have  been  gladdening  the  planet  since  Bethlehem 

smiled. 

Bid  the  singers  begin,  and  the  Manger's  old  chorus 
We  will  sing  as  they  sang  through  the  ages  before 

us  : 

Oh,  lift  your  dull  heart  from  its  pillow, 
Let  me  hold  it  awhile  in  my  hand, 

Till  it  warms  at  the  sight  of  the  willow 
As  the  sailor  at  sight  of  the  land  ; 

D 


50  THE   CHILD  AND    THE   STAR. 

'Till  it  rallies  some  soul  from  its  sorrow, 

'Till  it  smiles  the  dark  winter  away, 
Lights  the  hope  of  a  better  To  -  morrow 

With  the  glow  of  a  brighter  To  -  day. 
Let  us  bid  for  a  cloud  to  be  lifted, 

For  a  bed  that  is  nothing  but  straw, 
For  a  hearth  that  is  ashen  and  drifted 

For  a  debtor  disastered  by  law  ; 
That  the  tables  of  stone  may  be  broken 

And  the  hearth  be  an  altar  of  gold, 
And  the  pillow  of  Bethel  betoken 

Not  a  couch  but  the  Dreamer's  of  old  ! 
What  song  was  born  out  of  the  grieving, 

What  a  faith  in  its  splendor  began, 
What  worship  of  God  by  believing 

In  the  angel  that  lingers  in  man  ! 

Oh,  awake   in  your   chambers,   ye    bells   every 
where, 

Overturn,  oh,  ye  goblets,  and  empty  in  air 
All  the  music  that  swells  to  your  resonant  brims, 
'Till  ye  throb  like  our  hearts,  and  it  blends  with 
our  hymns  ! 


THE   CHILD  AND    THE   STAR.  51 

Now  be  thanks  to  our  God  that  this  Eve  of  the 

Christmas, 

Uniting  two  worlds  with  its  radiant  Isthmus, 
And  joining  again  what  transgression  had  riven, 
Is   the  children's   own  road  to  the  Kingdom  of 

Heaven  ! 
Oh,  bells  that  are  iron  !      Oh,   hearts   that   are 

human  ! 

Oh,  songs  that  are  sweet  as  the  loving  of  woman  ! 
Be  ye  blent  all  the  while  in  a  chorus  sublime 
As  the  carol  of  stars  by  the  cradle  of  Time  ! 
And  oh,  spare  us  an  angel  from  Bethlehem's  choir, 
Let  him  bring  the  same  song  that  he  helped  to  sing 

there, 

Be  the  grand  old  beatitude  sounded  again, 
And    to    earth    everywhere,    Merry    Christmas, 

AMEN  ! 


THANKSGIVING. 

T     AY  out  the  earth  in  a  sheet  of  snow, 
-*— '     There  is  nothing  at  all  to  harm  below, 
Where  men  dream  out  the  world  together, 
And  pansies  sleep  'till  pleasant  weather  — 
The  safest  place  in  all  the  land 
Is  the  narrow  realm  of  the  folded  hand  ! 
Then  THANKS  to  God  that  a  flower  will  die,— 
'T  was  made  to  time  Thanksgiving  by  : 
Breathe  as  it  falls — prophetic  thing  !  — 
"  There  '11  be  an  April  in  the  Spring  ! " 
Then  THANKS  to  God  for  a  sister  there 
To  stand  on  Glory's  diamond  stair, 
And  THANKS  again,  though  I  go  late, 
A  mother  gone  shall  smiling  wait, 
Shall  breathe  three  names  with  reverent  tone, 
The  Child's,  the  Virgin's,  and  her  Own, 
And  lift  the  latch  of  Mercy's  gate  ! 

52 


THANKSGIVING.  53 

II. 

Rouse  up  the  fire  to  a  costly  glow, 
'Till  the  maple  parts  and  the  rubies  show  ! 
Swing  back  the  curtains  now  if  ever, 
And,  rich  and  warm,  the  slender  river 
Shall  cleave  Thanksgiving  -  Night  in  twain 
As  the  mantle  parted  the  old  Red  Main  !  — 
Ah,  never  fear — shine  as  it  will, 
Enough  is  left  to  cheer  us  still. 
Perhaps  some  wanderer  going  past, 
Who  tried  all  sorrows  but  the  last, 
And  wonders  why  he  dares  to  live, 
And  thinks  he  has  no  thanks  to  give, 
May  see  that  glimmer  on  the  ground, — 
His  old  dead  heart  give  glad  rebound, — 
It  looks  so  like  the  road  of  gold 
He  trod  himself  in  time  of  old  — 
Look  up  and  see  Thanksgiving  found  ! 

m. 

Bring  out  the  chairs  from  the  empty  wall, 
Where  fitful  shadows  used  to  fall, 


54  THANKSGIVING. 

The  shapes  of  father,  sister,  mother, 

Of  slender  sweetheart,  friend,  and  brother. 

No  painted  window  half  so  fair 

As  the  old  home  -  room  with  its  shadows  there  ; 

No  pictured  hall,  at  king's  desire, 

Could  match  that  group  before  the  fire, 

Who  never  cast  a  shade  beside, 

But  on  that  wall,  and  when  they  died  ! 

And  some  went  up  at  break  of  day, 

Some  waited  longer  by  the  way ;  — 

Let  them  who  will  thank  God  for  light, 

Such  shadows  never  made  it  night. 

Come  one,  come  all,  there  yet  is  room, 

THANKS  be  to  God,  from  heaven  to  home 

Is  nothing  but  a  flash  of  flight ! 

IV. 

Wheel  forth  the  table,  a  laden  palm, 

We  '11  all  give  thanks  and  we  '11  sing  a  psalm  — 

Some  song  old  -  fashioned,  of  Forever, 

That  floated  safe  across  the  river, 

No  note  lost  out,  no  cadence  gone, 

They  warbled,  died>  and  sang  right  on  ! 


THANKSGIVING.  55 

The  girls  shall  come  in  their  white  and  blue 

As  if  they  broke  God's  azure  through, 

Played  truant  to  the  realms  of  light 

To  be  with  us  Thanksgiving  night. 

The  boys  are  thronging  through  the  hall, 

They  've  not  grown  old  these  years  at  all ! 

Some  marched  away  to  muffled  drum 

But  fling  no  shadows  as  they  come  — 

Without  a  sorrow  or  a  sin 

E'en  Death  himself  would  let  them  in  — 

Oh,  Sweethearts !  Comrades !  Welcome  home ! 


A    POET'S   LEGACY. 

PAST  twenty -one  and  Love's  of  age, 
Has  lost  his  wings  and  gained  his  eyes, 
Looks  down  on  life's  unended  page, 

Looks  up  and  sees  the  azure  skies. 
He 's  safe  to  stay  while  we  abide, 

His  time  for  flight  forever  past, 
'Twill  be  we  three  whate'er  betide, 

While  roses  blow  and  lilacs  last. 
No  bankrupt  Firm  is  this  of  ours, 
But  rich  as  June  in  suns  and  showers. 

Bring  out  the  ledger !     Every  thing 
That  men  call  gains  shall  be  for  sale  - 

Ay,  let  them  go  for  what  they  '11  bring, 
We  '11  keep  our  losses  till  we  fail ! 


A   POET'S  LEGACY.  57 

Of  old  when  Judah's  children  wed, 

They  pledged  their  faith  in  crimson  wine, 

Then  broke  the  crystal  as  they  said : 
"  No  lips  shall  touch  its  brim  but  mine ! 

"  This  shall  no  meaner  love  profane ! " 

The  shattered  symbol  fell  like  rain. 

None  stooped  to  pick  the  fragments  up — 

All  knew  the  thing  the  token  meant : 
Behold,  one  love  had  crowned  the  cup, 

No  matter  where  the  goblet  went ! 
And  so,  my  wife,  in  Judah's  way 

We  've  drank  life's  golden  draught  of  wine, 
And  strown  the  vase's  glittering  clay  — 

See  where  the  sculptured  fragments  shine  ! 
The  ledger  now !     Let  it  be  known 
How  rich  and  grand  this  Firm  has  grown. 

The  flock  of  clouds  we  always  keep 
Are  marked  with  rainbows  every  one, 

We  know  our  own  celestial  sheep 

That  throng  the  blue  and  graze  the  sun ; 

'Tis  fine  to  see  them  trooping  home, 
Their  fleeces  tangled  thick  with  stars ; 


58  A   POET'S  LEGACY. 

'Tis  fine  to  watch  them  as  they  come 
And  wait  at  Evening's  golden  bars ; 
Their  shadows  fall  upon  our  way, 
As  if  old  Night  had  walked  by  day 

And  left  her  foot -prints  as  she  went; 

Some  look  like  graves  of  friends  that  died, 
Whose  sunken  mounds  the  sward  indent, 

Of  babe  and  gallant  bridegroom's  bride, 
Of  golden  tress  and  silver  hair, — 

And  some  like  hopes  our  hearts  have  shed, 
That  fell  as  leaves  in  autumn  air 

And  crush  beneath  our  thoughtful  tread. 
Dear  wife,  we  have  no  clouds  to  sell, 
They  make  the  sunshine  show  so  well ! 

An  angel  troop  this  Firm  commands, 

A  score  and  one  they  stand  in  line, 
And  swing  aloft  in  radiant  hands 

A  score  and  one  of  Eves  divine  ! 
Of  Christmas  Eves  and  Christmas  bells 

And  Christmas  gifts  with  blessing  twice 
That  bring  us  all,  by  mystic  spells 

In  kissing  range  of  Paradise ! 


A   POET'S  LEGACY.  59 

My  wife,  we  would  not  give  them  up 
To  inend  again  the  shattered  cup ! 

A  score  and  one  of  kindling  Junes, 

The  warm  and  blushing  brides  of  Time, 
Are  ranged  along  like  notes  in  tunes, 

And  keep  our  hearts  in  rhythmic  rhyme. 
We  own  a  score  of  belfryed  towers 

Where  bird  -  like  wishes  bred  and  born 
Are  singing  songs  —  those  birds  are  ours  — 

We  count  our  twentieth  New  Year's  morn ! 
No  birds  to  sell,  nor  songs  nor  chimes, 
We  '11  keep  them  all  till  harder  times ! 

We  have  some  castles  gray  and  grand 

That  cloudless  suns  do  shine  upon, 
Along  their  halls  retainers  stand 

And  speak  Castilian  every  one. 
Nobody  dies  who  dwelleth  there, 

They  have  a  clime  where  tempests  swoon, 
No  graves  to  make,  no  empty  chair, 

And  Christmas  in  the  month  of  June ! 
I'll  make  the  deeds  — you'll  sign  them  sure, 
And  castles  twelve  we  '11  give  the  poor ! 


60  A    POET'S  LEGACY. 

We  've  had  a  wealth  of  dreams  as  rife 

As  corn  along  the  bladed  west, 
We  have  them  still  in  broider'd  life 

Like  flowers  upon  a  wedding  vest. 
There  comes  a  little  sounder  sleep, 

There  comes  a  richer  flush  of  dawn, 
'Till  then  we  '11  keep  our  flocks  of  sheep, 

No  castle,  cloud,  or  angel  gone. 
Down  flag  of  red !     We  '11  make  no  sale 
But  hold  our  losses  till  we  fail ! 

To  make  all  sure  my  Will  behold : 

"  To  her  who  kept  this  Firm  alive 
"  I  now  bequeath  my  clouds  of  gold, 

"  My  angel  choir,  my  castles  five, 
'  My  score  of  belfries,  all  my  sheep, 

"  The  fragments  of  the  sculptured  vase, 
"  To  have  and  hold  and  ever  keep ! " 

And  yet  I  've  done  no  act  of  grace, 
They  all  are  yours,  but  whose  are  you  ? 
I  freely  give  and  keep  them  too  ! 


THE  SONG   OF   THE  AGE. 

"\T7OULD  ye  know  the  grand  song  that  shall 
*  ^       sing  out  the  age  — 

That  shall  flow  down  the  world  as  the  lines  down 

i 

the  page  — 
That  shall  break  through  the  zones  like  a  North 

and  South  river, 

From  winter  to  spring  making  music  forever  ? 
I  heard  its  first  tone  by  an  old-fashioned  hearth — 
'T  was  an  anthem's  faint  cry  on  the  brink  of  its 

birth  ! 

'T  was  the  tea  -  kettle's  drowsy  and  droning  refrain 
As  it  sang  through  its  nose  as  it  swung  from  the 

crane. 

'T  was  a  being  begun  and  awaiting  its  brains  — 
To  be  saddled  and  bridled  and  given  the  reins. 

61 


(J2  THE  SONG  OF  THE  AGE. 

Now  its  lungs  are  of  steel  and  its  breathings  of 

fire 

And  it  craunches  the  miles  with  an  iron  desire  ; 
Its  white  cloud  of  a  mane  like  a  banner  unfurled, 
It  howls  through   the   hills  and   it  pants    round 

the  world ! 

It  furrows  the  forest  and  lashes  the  flood 
And  hovers  the  miles  like  a  partridge's  brood ! 

Oh,  stand  ye  to  -  day  in  the  door  of  the  heart, 
With  its  nerve  raveled  out,  floating  free  on  the  air, 
And  feeling  its  way  with  ethereal  art, 
By  the  flash  of  the  telegraph  everywhere, 
And  then  think,  if  you  can,  of  a  mission  more  grand 
Than  a  mission  to  LIVE  in  this  time  and  this  land, 
Round  the  world  for  a  sweetheart  an  arm  you  can 

wind, 
And  your  lips  to  the  ear  of  the  listening  mankind ! 


JUNE. 

r  I  "HE  world  is  in  June  and  it  ripples  in  rhyme, — 
•*-      June  !  Sweetheart  of  Life  and  own  darling 

of  Time. 
The  year,  with   glad  laughter,  plays   truant  to 

Death, 

Goes  back  so  near  Eden  she  catches  its  breath, 
And  follows  that  airy  old  fashion  of  Eve's, 
And  rustles  abroad  in  an  apron  of  leaves  ! 
She  holds  her  cheek  long  to  the  kiss  of  the  sun, 
Days  widen  and  warm  like  some  volume  begun, 
Narrow   night   like   a   ribbon   just  marking   the 

page 
Where  some  eloquent  thought  shall  last  out  the 

age. 

Every  bush  has  a  blossom,  a  bee,  or  a  bird, 
A  beauty  to  blow  or  a  hum  to  be  heard  — 
Battalions  of  legs  —  all  eyes  or  all  stings — 

63 


64  JUNE. 

And  billions  of  monsters,  musquitoes,  and  "  things," 
And  needles  like  cherubs,  with  nothing  but  wings. 
There  's  a  promise  to  plead  or  a  bill  to  present, 
A  grave  to  be  opened,  a  shroud  to  be  rent, 
For  they  rise  without  trump  ;    resurrections  in 

June 

Are  as  blithe  as  the  lark4"  and  as  bonny  as  Doon. 
From  the  tick  of  a  heart  in  the  breast  of  a  wren 
To  the  trumpets  that  make  Agamemnons  of  men, — 
From  the  tear  drop  that  trembles  unflashed  from 

its  brim 

To  the  surly  old  storm  that  rolls  over  earth's  rim, 
Tramples  out  the  white  stars  as  daisies  are  trod, 
While  its  red  plumage  shakes  with  the  drum  -  beat 

of  God, 
Till  green  world  and  blue  world  by  tempest  are 

riven 
And  the  lightnings'  dread  squadrons  charge  right 

up  to  Heaven, 

As  Sheridan  went — as  if  grim  Mission  Ridge 
With  its  arches  of  fire  were  the  pier  of  a  bridge 
Somebody  had  built  to  the  gates  of  the  sky 
And  he  bound  to  go  up  without  waiting  to  die  — 


JUNE.  65 

Everything,  everywhere,  struggling  up  in  the  strife. 
Is  beginning  to  climb  that  strange  ladder  of  life, 
With  an  angel  alight  on  its  uppermost  round 
And  an  atom  alive  where  it  touches  the  ground. 
From  the  blue  music -box  of  the  robin's  old  wife 

A  burglar  breaks  through  into  mansions  of  life. 

' 

Hearts  are  trumps  here  in  June  :  heart  of  lion  and 

lark, 

Heart  of  Richard  and  Rachel  and  Joan  of  Arc  ; 
Heart  of  iron  and  oak,  steady,  sturdy,  and  true, 
When  through  lines  of  red  fire  broke  the  jackets 

of  blue ; 

A  world  of  life's  rivers  all  ebbing  and  flowing, 
A  world  full  of  hearts  like  hammers  all  going, 
Yet  instead  of  our  hearing  these  drummers  of 

wonder 

With  their  ruffle  and  roll  pulsing  out  into  thunder, 
The  earth  is,  for  all  of  this  turbulent  crowd, 
As  still  as  a  star,  or  the  shape  in  a  shroud. 

I  think  it  was  June  when  the  maiden  looked  down 
On  the  dear  little  Moses  just  ready  to  drown, 

E 


66  JUNE. 

And,  his  basket  of  bulrushes  rocked  by  the  Nile, 
That  Columbus  of  Canaan  looked  up  with  a  smile ! 

When  summer's  green  surges  roll  over  the  land 
Till  you  hardly  can  tell   as  they  break   on   the 

strand, 

Where  this  world  doth  end  or  the  other  begin, 
They  so  hide  all  the  graves,  the  first  footprints  of 

sin, 
Is  it  strange  that  Earth's  singers  should  drift  out 

of  June, 

As  if  lifted  by  chance  on  the  swell  of  a  tune, 
And  fairly  float  over  life's  musical  bars, 
When  the  birds  can  go  with  them  half  way  to  the 

stars  ? 

So  went  Sontag and  Weber — magnificent  pair!  — 
He  was  clerk  to  the  angels  and  she  sang  in  the 

choir ; 
He  recorded  in  score,  but  she  passed  down  the 

word 

Till  a  turbulent  world  grew  human  and  heard. 
Ah,  talk  of  the  eye  unsleeping,  unweeping, 
Undaunted,  undying,  its  watch  and  ward  keeping, 


JUNE.  67 

To  whose  glance  telescopic  raveled  midnight  is 

given  — 
You  can  see  to  Orion,  but  you  hear  into  Heaven  ! 

So  went  they  in  June  who  with  wonderful  art 
Put  in  English  and  rhythm  the  beat  of  the  heart — 
The  bard  of  Sweet  Hope  and  the  bard  of  Sweet 

Home. 
They  wronged  thee,  oh  Sexton  !     They  tenant  no 

tomb, 

For  Campbell  shall  live  when  the  tartan  is  dim, 
And  Payne  walk  the  world  that  is  chanting  his 

hymn. 

How  came  they  in  June  who  the  rainbow  unbent 
And  laid  it  alive  on  the  fold  of  a  tent ; 
With  fingers  immortal  the  curtain  withdrew 
And  the  canvas  was  kindled   and  faces  looked 

through  — 

Lips  ruddy  and  ripe  with  the  old  loving  glow 
Somebody  was  kissing  three  ages  ago  ! 
So  Rubens,  June  born,  the  grand  master  of  art, 
With  a  nerve  in  his  pencil  strung  straight  from  his 

heart, 


68  JUNE. 

At  whose  touch  the  Evangels  gave  Calvary  up, 
The  Christ  and  the  Cross  and  the  Crown  and  the 

Cup- 

And  Hebrew  and  Greek  fell  away  from  the  story 
And  left  it  sublime  in  its  gloom  and  its  glory ! 

And  that  Spaniard,  June  born,  whose  fame  shed  a 

gleam 

Ere  Plymouth  had  pilgrim  or  Bunyan  a  dream  — 
With  no  drop  of  blue  blood  in  breast  or  in  brain, 
By  a  right  far  diviner  than  Philip's  of  Spain, 
Was  own  king  of  colors  —  whose  banners  so  brave 
Never  lowered  unto  death,  never  struck  to  the 

grave; 
Pride  and  pomp  of  the  realm  the  Armada  went 

down, 

Cleared  the  face  of  the  sea  like  a  vanishing  frown, 
But  some  child  that  he  painted,  its  journey  un 
done, 
Makes  the  transit  of  ages  as  Venus  the  sun  ! 

Christ  lay  in  thy  manger,  oh,  fairest  of  stars  ! 
June  rocks  in  thy  cradle,  oh,  brighter  than  Mars — 


JUNE.  69 

God  walked  in  thy  garden  —  man  sprung  from  thy 

dust  — 

Ah,  who  would  not  hold  thy  grand  story  in  trust, 
That  no  blade  would   be  wielded   nor  battle  be 

born, 
But  the  green    waving  sabres  by  ranks  of  young 

corn  ? 
Yet  what  broods  of  grim  thunders  have  nested  in 

June, 
Swooped  from  eyries  of  blue  in  the  broad  summer 

noon, 
Splashed  the  greenest  sod  red  with  the  color  of 

fame, 
Flared  the  flags  into  flower  with  their  breathings 

of  flame, 
And  growled  the  world  dumb  —  all  its  eloquent 

words, 

The  laugh  of  its  girls  and  the  songs  of  its  birds. 
Marengo  roars  down  the  long  highway  sublime, 
'Tis  the  Corsican  clocks  striking  Bonaparte's 

time  — 

The  grumble  of  guns  that  had  hidden  the  stars 
From  the  sands  of  the  Nile  to  the  land  of  the  Czars ; 


70  JUNE. 

Old  Monmouth  breaks  in  with  its  rattle  and  rain 
To   the  flash   of  the   flint  and   "  mad  Anthony 
Wayne." 

And  Cromwell  the  trooper,  half  lamb  and  half  lion, 
For  the  wicked   King   Charles   and  the  blessed 

Mount  Zion  — 
Two  hundred  years  nearer  Time's  morning  than 

now, 

Rode  into  the  storm  naked  blade  and  bare  brow, 
Wheeled  his  surly  old  squadrons  as  the  Lord  wheels 

a  cloud — 

Their  hearts  and  their  cannon  all  throbbing  aloud — 
And  rode  down  the  King  with  a  cavalry  shock 
That  smote  off  his  crown,  bent  his  head  to  the 

block, 
Made  royalists  tremble  and  monarchy  rock ! 

But  the  throb  of  no  battery  ever  has  stirred 

The  world's  mighty  heart  like  some  stout  English 

word, 

Wherein  a  brave  utterance  sandaled  and  shod 
Has  marched  down  the  ages  for  Freedom  and  God ! 


JUNE.  71 

'Mid  the  splendor  of  June  the  roar  of  the  Shannon 
Roused  something  more  grand  than  the  Chesa- 

peake's  cannon, 

For  she  wrung  out  the  words  from  Lawrence's  lip 
That  shall  linger  for  ever  :  "  Do  n't  give  up  the 

ship!" 

Ah,  the  click  of  flint  locks  is  not  half  so  divine 
As  the  click  of  the  type  as  they  fall  into  line, 
The  audible  step  of  unfaltering  feet 
To  a  mightier  tune  than  our  bosoms  can  beat. 

I  remember  the  heroes  who  sailed  out  of  June, 
Ross,  Harvey,  and  Franklin,  and  Hudson's  u  Half 

Moon," 

Into  realms  where  the  sea  has  breathlessly  stood 
Like  the  scalps  of  the  Alps  dumb  and  white  before 

God; 
Who  have  bended   the  oar  and  have  lifted  the 

wing, 

Fairly  fled  the  dominions  of  caliph  and  king, 
Broken  out  of  horizons  as  old  as  mankind, 
Shatter'd  shells  of  the  worlds  they  were  leaving 

behind. 


Aye,  Harvey,  who  stood  by  the  brink  of  a  heart, 
And  saw  it  brim  over,  turn  crimson  and  start, 
And  discovered  a  river  as  truly  God's  own 
As  the  river  of  crystal  that  flows  by  His  throne. 

Bear  away,  ye  tall  ships,  farewell  and  all  hail ! 
Cloud  up,  main  and  mizzen,  weigh  anchor,  and  sail ! 
Be  lifted  blue  Heaven  !    Let  the  admirals  through, 
There 's  a  lubber  ashore  that  is  grander  than  you ! 
Born  of  rags  and   flung   down  on   a  marvelous 

street, 

All  rough  with  the  prints  of  a  million  of  feet. 
And  cradled  in  iron  and  trampled  with  ink, 
This  poor  dingy  creature,  I  venture  to  think, 
The  frailest  and  feeblest  of  fluttering  things, 
As  easily  crushed  as  a  butterfly's  wings. 
Has  more  power,  oh,  ye  ships,  than  your  canvas  of 

white 

To  let  out  the  world  and  to  let  in  the  light. 
And  swing  from  their  hinges  the  portals  of  night. 

Let  the  ashes  of  Smithfield  tell,  if  they  can, 
When  this  gift  of  the  Pentecost  fell  upon  man. 


JUNE.  73 

It  was  born  out  of  doors  in  that  faded  old  June 
When  the  chime  of  Christ's  ages  struck  twelve 

o'clock  noon, 
And  the  barons  of  John  plucked  the  heart  of  this 

thing, 
The  Charter  of  Liberty,  warm  from  the  King. 

Imperial  June  of  the  emerald  crown  ! 

When  angels  had  read  the  Lord's  weather -roll 

down, 

They  found  but  one  June  in  all  Heaven  to  spare, 
And  direct  by  the  route  of  the  answer  to  prayer 
From  the  glory  above  thou  didst  fall  through  the 

air. 


OCTOBER. 

I. 

T  WOULD  not  die  in  May : 
-*-    When  orchards  drift  with  blooms  of  white  like 

billows  on  the  deep, 

And  whispers  from  the  Lilac  bush  across  my  senses 
sweep, 

That  'mind  me  of  a  girl  I  knew  when  life  was 

• 
always  May, 

Who  rilled  my  nights  with  starry  hopes  that  faded 

out  by  day  — 
When  time  is  full  of  wedding  -  days,  and  nests  of 

robins  brim, 
'Till  overflows  their  wicker  sides  the  old  familiar 

hymn  — 
The  window  brightens  like  an  eye,  the  cottage 

doors  swing  wide. 
The  boys  come  homeward  one  by  one  and  bring  a 

smiling  bride, 

74 


OCTOBER.  75 

The  fire  -  fly  shows  her  signal  light,  the  partridge 

beats  his  drum, 

And  all  the  world  gives  promise  of  something 
sweet  to  come  — 

Ah,  who  would  die  on  such  a  day  ? 
Ah,  who  would  die  in  May  ? 

n. 

I  would  not  die  in  June : 

When  looking  up  with  faces  quaint  the  pansies 
grace  the  sod, 

And  looking  down,  the  willows  see  their  doubles 
in  the  flood  — 

When  blessing  God  we  breathe  again  the  roses  in 
the  air, 

And  lilies  light  the  fields  along  with  their  immor 
tal  wear 

As  once  they  lit  the  Sermon  of  the  Saviour  on  the 
Mount, 

And  glorified  the  story  they  evermore  recount — 

Through  pastures  blue  the  flocks  of  God  go  troop 
ing  one  by  one, 

And  turn  their  golden  fleeces  round  to  dry  them 
in  the  sun  — 


76  OCTOBER. 

When  calm  as  Galilee  the  grain  is  rippling  in  the 

wind, 

And  nothing  dying  anywhere  but  something  that 
has  sinned  — 

Ah,  who  would  die  in  life's  own  noon  ? 
Ah,  who  would  die  in  June  ? 

in. 

But  when  OCTOBER  comes, 
And  poplars  drift  their  leafage  down  in  flakes  of 

gold  below, 
And  beeches  burn  like  twilight  fires  that  used  to 

tell  of  snow, 
And  maples  bursting  into  flame  set  all  the  hills 

a -fire, 
And  Summer  from  her  evergreens  sees  Paradise 

draw  nigher  — 
A  thousand  sunsets  all  at  once  distil  like  Hermon's 

dew, 
And  linger  on  the  waiting  woods  and  stain  them 

through  and  through, 

As  if  all  earth  had  blossomed  out,  one  grand  Co 
rinthian  flower, 
To  crown  Time's   graceful   capital   for  just  one 

gorgeous  hour ! 


OCTOBER.  77 

They  strike  their  colors  to  the  king  of  all  the 

stately  throng — 
He  comes  in  pomp,  OCTOBER  !     To  him  all  times 

belong  : 
The  frost  is  on  his  sandals  but  the  flush  is  on  his 

cheeks, 
September  sheaves  are  in  his  arms,  June  voices 

when  he  speaks  — 
The  elms  lift  bravely  like  a  torch  within  a  Grecian 

hand, 
See  where  they  light  the  Monarch  on  through  all 

the  splendid  land  ! 
The  sun  puts  on  a  human  look  behind  the  hazy 

fold, 
The  mid -year  moon  of  silver  is  struck  anew  in 

gold, 

In  honor  of  the  very  day  that  Moses  saw  of  old, 
For  in  the  Burning  Bush  that  blazed  as  quenchless 

as  a  sword 
The  old  Lieutenant  first  beheld  OCTOBER  and  the 

LORD  ! 

Ah,  then,  October,  let  it  be  — 
I'll  claim  my  dying  day  from  thee  ! 


TORNADO  SUNDAY. 

winds  sweetly  sung 
In  the  elms  as  they  swung, 
And  the  woods  were  in  time  and  the  robins  in  tune ; 
One  cloud  just  forgiven, 
Lay  at  anchor  in  heaven. 
And  Iowa  asleep  on  the  threshold  of  June ! 

All  the  air  a  great  calm, 
And  the  prairie  a  palm, 
For  the  Lord  when  He  blest,  left  the  print  of  His 

hand  — 

All  the  roses  in  blow, 
All  the  rivers  a -glow, 

Thus  the  Sabbath  came  down  on  the  bud  -  laden 
land. 

On  the  bride  and  the  bold, 
On  the  clay  and  the  gold, 

78 


TORNADO   SUNDAY.  79 

On  the  furroAv  unfmish  'd,  on  fame  to  be  won, 

On  the  turbulent  tide, 

On  the  river 's  green  side 
Where  the  flocks  of  white  villages  lay  in  the  sun. 

All  the  world  was  in  rhyme  — 

Bid  good  morning  to  Time ! 

Oh,  sweet  bells  and  sweet  words  of  the  dear  golden 
Then! 

It  is  fair  all  abroad 

From  blue  sky  to  green  sod  ! 
Let  us  pray  while  we  can :  blessed  Sabbath,  Amen ! 

Not  a  murmur  in  air, 

Nor  lament  anywhere, 
And  no  footfall  of  God  on  the  ledges  of  cloud ; 

'Twas  a  breath,  and  it  fled — 

Song  and  Sabbath  were  dead, 
And  the  threads  of  gold  sunshine  the  woof  of  the 
shroud. 

Oh,  words  never  spoken, 
Oh,  heart  and  hearth  broken, 


80  TORNADO   SUNDAY. 

Oh,  beautiful  paths  such  as  loving  feet  wear ! 

All  erased  from  the  land, 

Like  a  name  in  the  sand  — 
As  the  thistle  -  down  drifts  on  a  billow  of  air ! 

Like  the  sighing  of  leaves 

When  the  winter  wind  grieves, 
Like  the  rattle  of  chariots  driving  afar, 

Like  the  wailing  of  woods, 

Like  the  rushing  of  floods, 
Like  the  clang  of  huge  hammers  a -forging  a  star ! 

Like  a  shriek  of  despair 

In  the  shivering  air, 
Like  the  rustle  of  banners  with  tempest  abroad, 

Like  a  soul  out  of  heaven, 

Like  a  tomb  trumpet  -  riven, 
Like  a  syllable  dropp'd  from  the  thunder  of  God  I 

Then  these  to  their  weeping. 

And  those  to  their  sleeping. 
And  the  blue  wing  of  heaven  was  over  them  all ! 

Oh  "sweet  south"  that  singeth. 

Oh,  flower  girl  that  bringeth 
The  gushes  of  fragrance  to  hovel  and  hall ! 


TORNADO    SUNDAY.  gl 

Oh,  blue -bird,  shed  Spring 

With  the  flash  of  thy  wing, 
Where  December  drifts  cold  in  the  bosom  of  June — 

Set  our  hearts  to  the  words, 

Dear  as  songs  of  first  birds : 

We  are  Brothers  at  night  that  were  strangers  at 
noon! 


THE  SKYLARK. 

T    HELD  in  my  hand  a  wonder — a  hymn  of  a 

thousand  years ; 
It  was  born  in  an  English  meadow — it  was  older 

than  English  cheers  — 
'Twas  a  hymn  for  the  Roman  eagles  and  a  psalm 

for  the  Norman  Line — 
It  was  sung  through  the  wars  of  the  Roses,  when 

the  York  turned  red  as  wine — 
It  was  heard  on  Bosworth  field,  when  Gloster's 

flint  struck  fire, 
And  Richard 's  soul  to  Richmond 's  steel  did  glim  - 

mer  and  expire ; 
When  the  peans  for  the  thane  drowned  the  dirges 

for  the  thing, 
And  he  swept  across  the  planet  on  fame 's  eternal 

wing, 
Who  waged  the  battle  as  an  earl  but  won  it  as  a 

king, 


THE   SKYLARK.  gg 

And  plucked  the  crown  of  England  from  the  haw 
thorn  where  it  hung, 

And  lightly  to  his  longing  brow  Golconda  's  clus 
ter  swung, 

The  crown  upon  the  coronet,  till  the  light  of  its 
pearls  grew  thin 

And  pale  as  a  morning  star  that  has  led  the  day 
light  in. 

Charge !  and  Marstoii  Moor  was  a  drum  by  gal  - 

loping  cavalry  beat, 
Halt !  and  each  iron  rank  brought  up  with  a  clank, 

and  each  trooper  sat  still  in  his  seat. 
Hark  !  and  down  from  the  blue  to  the  red  was 

floating  that  exquisite  strain, 
As  if  every  rider  had  ridden,  and  never  drawn  sabre 

or  rein, 
Right  out  of  the  hell  of  the  battle  to  the  door  of 

heaven  ajar, 
And  thought  he  heard  before  his  time  the  singing 

of  a  star, 
And  thought  he  saw  in  the  downy  cloud  the  truant 

from  the  choir, 
As  it  hung  in  sweet  libration  —  an  anthem  in  the  air. 


84  THE    SKYLARK. 

And  I  held  in  ray  hand    that  wonder  —  a  book 

with  a  single  psalm. 
That  would  not  brim  the  hollow  cf  a  woman  's 

loving  palm ; 
And  the  lyric  was  brown  breasted,  and  the  lids  of 

the  book  were  wings. 
And  the  bird  was  an   English  skylark,  and  the 

feeblest  of  God 's  things. 
That  had  fallen  out  of  the  azure  like  a  mote  from 

a  mighty  eye. 
And  had  shared  the  fate  of  the  sparrow,  for  the 

Father  saw  him  die. 
Oh,  bravest  bird  of  Britain!  —  a  little  ounce  of 

death — 
Oh,  song  born  out  of  heaven  !  —  a  clod  without  a 

breath. 

And  then  my  soul  grew  reverent  —  my  heart  beat 

strong  and  grand. 
As  I  thought  of  the  broad  commission  of  the  atom 

in  my  hand ; 

That  the  Admiral  of  the  fleets  at  anchor  off  the  world, 
Flung  out  his  pennant  with  a  touch  that  little  pin  - 

ion  furled  — 


THE   SKYLARK.  x.', 

Unrolled  the  scrolls  of  thunder,  'twixt  the  seraph 

and  the  sod, 
Dashed  down  a  word  of  fire  in  the  running  hand 

of  God, 
And  stamped  the  stormy  margins  with  His  ring  so 

l>road  and  brave, 

One  half  is  in  the  welkin  —  the  other  in  the  wave : 
By  Him  to  meet  that  bird  mid -air,  the  misty  morn 

was  driven, 
Lest  it  should  break  away  from  earth  and  sing  it  - 

self  to  heaven ; 
He  sowed  the  Grand  Armada  like  grain  upon  the 

breeze, 
But  gave  to  lark  and  lightning  the  freedom  of  the 

seas! 


The  cattle  asleep  in  the  meadow  and  the  shadows 

asleep  on  the  hill, 
And  the  mists,  like  gray  Franciscans,  all  standing 

ghostly  still  — 
And  the  stars  are  drowsily  shutting  their  eyes  as 

weary  watchers  will  — 


86  THE   SKYLARK. 

And  the  crescent  moon  in  the  west  shows  the  flash 

of  a  silver  shoe, 
As  the  steed  that  brought  over  the  midnight  is 

bearing  it  down  the  blue, 
And  out  of  the  silence  and  shadow  there  quivered 

the  slenderest  song, 
And  a  bird  going  up  in  the  morning  exultantly 

followed  along  — 
And  the  mountains  stood  down  in  their  places  and 

the  clouds  all  timidly  clung, 
But  a  strand  of  Jehovah  untwisted  whereon  the 

lost  Pleiads  are  strung, 
When  this  bird  with  its  music  and  motion,  ere  the 

dawn  had  blooded  its  breast, 

Up  direct  from  the  sod  to  the  glory  of  God,    tri 
umphantly  burst  from  the  nest. 


BUNKER  HILL. 

r  I  ^O  the  wail  of  the  fife  and  the  snarl  of  the  drum 
*-      Those  Hedgers  and  Ditchers  of  Bunker  Hill 

come, 

Down  out  of  the  battle  with  rumble  and  roll, 
Straight  across  the  two  ages,  right  into  the  soul, 
And  bringing  for  captive  the  Day  that  they  won 
With  a  deed  that  like  Joshua  halted  the  sun. 
Like  bells  in  their  towers  tolled  the  guns  from  the 

town, 
Beat   that   low    earthen  bulwark  so   sullen   and 

brown, 

As  if  Titans  last  night  had  plowed  the  one  bout 
And  abandoned  the  field  for  a  Yankee  redoubt ; 
But  for  token  of  life  that  the  parapet  gave 
They  might  as  well  play  on  Miles  Standish's  grave ! 
Then  up  the  green   hill   rolled   the  red  of  the 

Georges 
And  down  the  green  vale  rolled  the  grime  of  the 

forges  — 

87 


88  BUNKER    HILL. 

Ten  rods  from  the  ridges  hung  the  live  surge, 
Not  a  murmur  to  meet  it  broke  over  the  verge, 
But  the  click  of  flint-locks  in  the  furrows  along, 
And  the  chirp  of  a  sparrow  just  singing  her  song. 
In  the  flash  of  an  eye,  as  the  dead  shall  be  raised, 
The  dull  bastion  kindled,  the  parapet  blazed, 
And  the  musketry  cracked,  glowing  hotter  and 

higher, 

Like  a  forest  of  hemlock,  its  lashes  of  fire. 
And  redder  the  scarlet  and  riven  the  ranks, 
And  Putnam's  guns  hung,  with  a  roar  on  the  flanks. 
Now  the  battle  grows  dumb  and  the  grenadiers 

wheel, 
'Tis  the  crash  of  clubbed  musket,  the  thrust  of 

cold  steel, 
At  bay  all  the  way,  while  the  guns  held  their 

breath, 
Foot  to  foot,  eye  to  eye,  with  each  other  and 

Death. 
Call  the  roll,  Sergeant  Time  !    Match  the  day  if 

you  can : 
Waterloo  was  for  Britons — Bunker  Hill  is  for  man  ! 


THE   OLD    VILLAGE   CHOIR. 

I  HAVE  fancied  sometimes  the  Bethel-bent  beam 
That  trembled  to  earth   in   the   Patriarch's 

dream, 

Was  a  ladder  of  song  in  that  wilderness  rest 
From  the  pillow  of  stone  to  the  blue  of  the  Blest, 
And  the  angels  descending  to  dwell  with  us  here, 
"  Old  Hundred"  and  "Corinth"  and   "China" 
and  "  Mear." 

All  the  hearts  are  not  dead  nor  under  the  sod 
That  those  breaths  can  blow  open  to  Heaven  and 

God. 
Ah,    "Silver  Street"  flows  by  a  bright  shining 

road, — 

Oh,  not  to  the  hymns  that  in  harmony  flowed, 
But  the  sweet  human  psalms  of  the  old-fashioned 

choir, 
To  the  girl  that  sang  alto,  the  girl  that  sang  air. 

89 


90  THE   OLD    VILLAGE   CHOIR. 

"  Let  us  sing  to  God's  praise  ! "  the  minister  said : 
All  the  psalm-books  at  once  fluttered  open  at 

"  York," 
Sunned  their  long  dotted  wings  in  the  words  that 

he  read, 

While  the  leader  leaped  into  the  tune  just  ahead, 
And  politely  picked  up  the  key  -  note  with  a  fork, 
And  the  vicious  old  viol  went  growling  along 
At  the  heels  of  the  girls  in  the  rear  of  the  song. 

Oh,  I  need  not  a  wing ;  — bid  no  genii  come 

With  a  wonderful  web  from  Arabian  loom, 

To  bear  me  again  up  the  river  of  Time, 

When  the  world  was  in  rhythm  and  life  was  its 

rhyme, 
And  the  stream  of  the  years  flowed  so  noiseless 

and  narrow 

That  across  it  there  floated  the  song  of  a  sparrow ; 
For  a  sprig  of  green  caraway  carries  me  there, 
To  the  old  village  church  and  the  old  village  choir, 
Where  clear  of  the  floor  my  feet  slowly  swung 
And  timed  the  sweet  pulse  of  the  praise  that  they 

sung, 


THE   OLD    VILLAGE   CHOI  A'.  91 

Till  the  glory  aslant  from  the  afternoon  sun 
Seemed  the  rafters  of  gold  in  God's  temple  begun  ! 

You  may  smile  at  the  nasals  of  old  Deacon  Brown 
Who  followed  by  scent  till  he  ran  the  tune  down, 
And  dear  sister  Green,  with  more  goodness  than 

grace, 
Rose  and  fell  on  the  tunes  as  she  stood  in  her 

place, 

And  where  "  Coronation  "  exultantly  flows, 
Tried  to  reach  the  high  notes  on  the  tips  of  her 

toes  ! 
To  the  land  of  the  leal  they  have  gone  with  their 

song, 

Where  the  choir  and  the  chorus  together  belong. 
Oh  !  be  lifted,  ye  gates  !    Let  me  hear  them  again, 
Blessed  song  !    Blessed  Singers  !    forever,  Amen. 


GOING   HOME. 

T~\RAWN  by  horses  with  decorous  feet, 
*-^  A  carriage  for  one  went  through  the  street 
Polished  as  anthracite  out  of  the  mine, 
Tossing  its  plumes  so  stately  and  fine, 
As  nods  to  the  night  a  Norway  pine. 

The  passenger  lay  in  Parian  rest, 
As  if,  by  the  Sculptor  "s  hand  caressed 
A  mortal  life  through  the  marble  stole, 
And  then  till  an  Angel  calls  the  roll 
It  waits  awhile  for  a  human  soul. 

He  rode  in  state,  but  his  carriage  -  fare 
Was  left  unpaid  to  his  only  heir; 
Hardly  a  man  from  hovel  to  throne 
Takes  to  this  route  in  coach  of  his  own, 
But  borrows  at  last  and  travels  alone. 


GOING  HOME.  93 

The  driver  sat  In  his  silent  seat, 
The  world  as  still  as  a  field  of  wheat 
Gave  all  the  road  to  the  speechless  twain, 
And  thought  the  passenger  never  again 
Should  travel  that  way  with  living  men. 

Not  a  robin  held  its  little  breath, 
But  sang  right  on  in  the  face  of  death ; 
You  never  would  dream  to  see  the  sky 
Give  glance  for  glance  to  the  violet 's  eye, 
That  aught  between  them  ever  could  die. 

A  wain  bound  East  met  the  hearse  bound  West, 
Halted  a  moment,  and  passed  abreast ; 
And  I  verily  think  a  stranger  pair 
Have  never  met  on  a  thoroughfare, 
Or  a  dim  by  -  road,  or  anywhere : 

The  hearse  as  slim  and  glossy  and  still 
As  silken  thread  at  a  woman 's  will, 
Who  watches  her  work  with  tears  unshed, 
Broiders  a  grief  with  needle  and  thread, 
Mourns  in  pansies  and  cypress  the  dead ; 


94  GOING  HOME. 

Spotless  the  steeds  in  a  satin  dress, 

That  run  for  two  worlds,  the  Lord's  Express 

Long  as  the  route  of  Arcturus's  ray, 

Brief  as  the  Publican's  trying  to  pray, 

No  other  steeds  by  no  other  way 

Could  go  so  far  in  a  single  day. 

From  wagon  broad  and  heavy  and  rude 
A  group  looking  out  from  a  single  hood : 
Striped  with  the  flirt  of  a  heedless  lash, 
Dappled  and  dimmed  with  many  a  splash, 
"  Gathered  "  behind  like  an  old  calash, 

It  made  you  think  of  a  schooner 's  sail 
Mildewed  with  weather,  tattered  by  gale, 
Down  "  by  the  run  "  from  mizzen  and  main  — 
That  canvas  mapped  with  stipple  and  stain 
Of  Western  earth  and  the  prairie  rain. 

The  watch  -  dog  walked  in  his  ribs  between 
The  hinder  wheels  with  sleepy  mien ; 
A  dangling  pail  to  the  axle  slung ; 
Astern  of  the  wain  a  manger  hung  — 
A  schooner 's  boat  by  the  davits  swung. 


GOING  HOME.  95 

The  white  -  faced  boys  sat  three  in  a  row, 
With  eyes  of  wonder  and  heads  of  tow  ; 
Father  looked  sadly  over  his  brood : 
Mother  just  lifted  a  flap  of  the  hood; 
All  saw  the  hearse  —  and  two  understood. 

They  thought  of  the  one  -  eyed  cabin  small, 
Hid  like  a  nest  in  the  grasses  tall, 
Where  plains  swept  boldly  off  in  the  air, 
Grooved  into  heaven  everywhere  — 
So  near  the  stars'  invisible  stair 

That  planets  and  prairie  almost  met  — 
Just  cleared  its  edges  as  they  set ! 
They  thought  of  the  level  world  's  "  divide," 
And  their  hearts  flowed  down  its  other  side 
To  the  little  grave  of  the  girl  that  died. 

They  thought  of  childhood 's  neighborly  hills 
With  sunshine  aprons  and  ribbons  of  rills, 
That  drew  so  near  when  the  day  went  down, 
Put  on  a  crimson  and  golden  crown 
And  sat  together  in  mantles  brown ; 


9(5  GOING  HOME. 

The  dawn's  red  plume  in  their  winter  caps, 
And  Night  asleep  in  their  drowsy  laps, 
Light  'ning  the  load  of  the  shouldered  wood 
By  shedding  the  shadows  as  they  could, 
That  gathered  round  where  the  homestead  stood. 

They  thought  —  that  pair  in  the  rugged  wain, 
Thinking  with  bosom  rather  than  brain ; 
They  '11  never  know  till  their  dying  day 
That  what  they  thought  and  never  could  say, 
Their  hearts  throbbed  out  in  an  Alpine  lay, 
The  old  Waldensian  song  again : 
Thank  God  for  the  mountains,  and  Amen  ! 

The  wain  gave  a  lurch,  the  hearse  moved  on  — 
A  moment  or  two,  and  both  were  gone  ; 
The  wain  bound  East,  the  hearse  bound  West, 
Both  going  home,  both  looking  for  rest, — 
The  Lord  save  all,  and  His  name  be  blest ! 


THE  DEAD    GRENADIER. 

the  right  of  the  battalion  a  grenadier  of 
France, 
Struck  through  his  iron  harness  by  the  lightning 

of  a  lance, 
His  breast  all  wet  with  British  blood,  his  brow  with 

British  breath, 
There  fell  defiant,  face  to  face  with  England  and 

with  death. 

They  made  a  mitre  of  his  heart  —  they  cleft  it- 
through  and  through  — 
One  half  was  for  his  legion,  and  the  other  for  it 

too! 

The  colors  of  a  later  day  prophetic  fingers  shed, 
For  lips  were  blue  and  cheeks  were  white  and  the 

fleur  de  Us  was  red  ! 
And  the  bugles  blew,  and  the  legion  wheeled,  and 

the  grenadier  was  dead. 

Cr  07 


98  THE    DEAD   GRENADIER. 

And  then  the  old  commander  rode  slowly  down 

the  ranks, 
And  thought  how  brief  the  journey  grew,  between 

the  battered  flanks ; 
And  the  shadows  in  the  moonlight  fell  strangely 

into  line 
Where  the  battle's  reddest  riot  pledged  the  richest 

of  the  wine, 
And  the  camp-fires  flung  their  phantoms  —  all 

doing  what- they  could 
To  close  the  flinty  columns  up  as  old  campaigners 

would  ! 
On  he  rode,  the  old  commander,  with  the  ensign 

in  advance, 
And,  as  statued  bronzes  brighten  with  the  smoky 

torch's  glance, 
Flashed  a  light  in  all  their  faces,  like  the  flashing 

of  a  lance, 
When,  with  brow  all  bare  and  solemn,  "  For  the 

King ! "  he  grandly  said, 
"  Lower  the  colors  to  the  living — beat  the  ruffle 

for  the  dead ! " 


THE    DEAD   GRENADIER.  99 

And  thrice  the  red  silk  flickered  low  its  flame  of 

royal  fire, 
And   thrice   the   drums    moaned   out   aloud    the 

mourner's  wild  desire. 
Ay,  lower  again  thou  crimson  cloud — again  ye 

drums  lament  — 
'T  is  Rachel  in  the  wilderness  and  Ramah  in  the 

tent ! 

"Close  up!  Right  dress!"  the  Captain  said,  and 

they  gathered  under  the  moon, 
As  the  shadows  glide  together  when  the  sun  shines 

down  at  noon  — 
A  stranger  at  each  soldier's  right  —  ah,  war's  wild 

work  is  grim  !  — 
And  so  to  the  last  of  the  broken  line,  and  Death  at 

the  right  of  him  ! 

And  there,  in  the  silence  deep  and  dead,  the  Ser 
geant  called  the  roll, 
And  the  name  went  wandering  down  the  lines  as 

he  called  a  passing  soul. 
Oh,  then  that  a  friendly  mountain  that  summons 

might  have  heard, 


100  THE    DEAD   GRENADIER. 

And  flung  across  the  desert  dumb  the  shadow  of 

the  word, 
And  caught  the  name  that  all  forlorn  along  the 

legion  ran, 
And  clasped  it  to  its  mighty  heart  and  sent  it  back 

to  man  ! 

There  it  stood,  the  battered  legion,  while  the  Ser 
geant  called  the  roll, 
And  the  name  went  wandering  down  the  lines  as 

he  called  for  a  passing  soul. 
Hurrah  for  the  dumb,  dead  lion  !     And  a  voice  for 

the  grenadier 
Rolled  out  of  the  ranks  like  a  drum -beat,  and 

sturdily  answered  "'  HERE!" 
"  He  stood,"  cried  the  sons  of  thunder,  and  their 

hearts  ran  over  the  brim, 
"  He  stood  by  the  old  battalion,  and  we  '11  always 

stand  by  him  ! 
"  Ay,  call  for  the  grand  crusader,  and  we  '11  answer 

to  the  name." 
"And  what    will   ye   say?"   the   Sergeant  said. 

"  DEAD  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  FAME  ! " 


DEAD   GRENADIER.  101 

And  dare  ye  call  that  dying  ?  The  dignity  sub 
lime 

That  gains  a  furlough  from  the  grave,  and  then 
reports  to  Time  ? 

Doth  earth  give  up  the  daisies  to  a  little  sun  and 
rain, 

And  keep  at  their  roots  the  heroes  while  weary 
ages  wane  ? 

Sling  up  the  trumpet,  Israfeel !  Sweet  bugler  of 
our  God, 

For  nothing  waits  thy  summons  beneath  this  bro 
ken  sod  ; 

They  march  abreast  with  the  ages  to  the  thunder 
on  the  right, 

For  they  bade  the  world  "  GOOD  MORNING  "  when 
the  world  had  said  "•  GOOD  NIGHT!" 


RHYMES  OF  TBZ  RIVER. 


O 


,H  River  far -flowing, 

How  broad  thou  art  growing ! 
And  the  sentinel  head  -  lands  wait  grimly  for  thee ; 
And  Euroclydon  urges 
The  bold -riding  surges, 
That  in  white  -  crested  lines  gallop  in  from  the  sea 

O  bright  -  hearted  river, 

With  crystalline  quiver, 

Like   a  sword   from   its    scabbard,    far  -  flashing 
abroad ! 

And  I  think,  as  I  gaze 

On  the  tremulous  blaze, 
That  thou  surely  wert  drawn  by  an  angel  of  God ! 

Through  the  black  -  heart  of  night, 
Leaping  out  to  the  light, 

108 


RHYfMES  OF   THE  RIVER.  1Q3 

Thou  art  reeking  with  sunset  and  dyed  with  the 

dawn  ; 

Cleft  the  emerald  sod  — 
Cleft  the  mountains  of  God  — 

And  the  shadows  of  roses  yet  rusted  thereon  ! 

Where  willows  are  weeping, 
Where  shadows  are  sleeping, 
Where  the  frown  of  the  mountain  lies  dark  on  thy 

crest ; 

Arcturus  now  shining, 
Arbutus  now  twining, 

And  "  my  castles  in  Spain  "  gleaming  down  in  thy 
breast ; 

Then  disastered  and  dim, 
Swinging  sullen  and  grim, 
Where   the   old   ragged  shadows   of    hovels   are 

shed; 

Creeping  in,  creeping  out, 
As  in  dream,  or  in  doubt, 

In  the   reeds  and  the   rushes  slow  rocking  the 
dead. 


104  RHYMES  OF    THE  RIVER. 

When  all  crimson  and  gold, 

Slowly  home  to  the  fold 

Do   the   fleecy   clouds  flock  to   the   gateway  of 
even, 

Then,  no  longer  brook  -  born, 

But  a  way  paved  with  morn, 
Ay,  a  bright  golden  street  to  the  city  of  Heaven  ' 

In  the  great  stony  heart 

Of  the  feverish  mart, 
Is  the  throb  of  thy  pulses  pellucid,  to-day  ; 

By  gray  mossy  ledges, 

By  green  velvet  edges, 

Where   the   corn    waves   its   sabre,   thou  glidest 
away. 

Broad  and  brave,  deep  and  strong, 

Thou  art  lapsing  along  ; 
And  the  stars  rise  and  fall  in  thy  turbulent  tide, 

As  light  as  the  drifted 

White  swan  's  breast  is  lifted, 
Or  a  June  fleet  of  lilies  at  anchor  mav  ride. 


RHYMES  OF   THE  RIVER.  105 

And  yet,  gallant  river, 

On  -  flashing  forever, 

That  hast  cleft  the  broad  world  011  thy  way  to  the 
main, 

I  would  part  from  thee  here, 

With  a  smile  and  a  tear, 
And  a  Hebrew,  read  back  to  thy  fountains  again. 

Ah,  well  1  remember, 

Ere  dying  December 

Would   fall   like  a  snow-flake  and  melt  on  thy 
breast, 

O  'er  thy  waters  so  narrow  ' 

The  little  brown  sparrow 
Used  to  send  his  low  song  to  his  mate  on  the  nest. 

With  a  silvery  skein 

Wove  of  snow  and  of  rain, 

Thou  didst  wander  at  will  through  the  bud  -laden 
land, — 

All  the  air  a  sweet  psalm, 

And  the  meadow  a  palm, — 
As  a  blue  vein  meanders  a  liberal  hand. 


106  RHYMES  OF   THE  RIVER. 

When  the  school  -  master's  daughter 
With  her  hands  scooped  the  water, 
And  laughingly  proffered  the  crystal  to  me, 
Oh,  there  ne  'er  sparkled  up 
A  more  exquisite  cup 

Than  the  pair  of  white  hands  that  were  brimming 
with  thee ! 

\ 

And  there  all  together, 

In  bright  summer  weather, 
Did  we  loiter  with  thee  along  thy  green  brink  ; 

And  how  silent  we  grew 

If  the  robin  came  too, 

When  he  looked  up  to  pray,  and  then  bent  down 
to  drink  ! 

Ah,  where  are  the  faces, 

From  out  thy  still  places, 

That  so  often  smiled  back  in  those  soft  days  of 
May? 

As  we  bent  hand  in  hand, 

Thou  didst  double  the  band,  • 

As  idle  as  daisies  —  and  fleeting  as  they  ! 


RHYMES  OF    THE  RIVER.  107 

Like  the  dawn  in  the  cloud 
Lay  the  babe  in  its  shroud, 
And  a  rose  -  bud  was  clasped  in  its  frozen  white 

hand  :  — 

At  the  mother's  last  look 
It  had  opened  the  book, 

As  if  sweet  -  breathing  June  were  abroad  in  the 
land! 

O  pure  placid  river 

Make  music  forever 
In  the  gardens  of  Paradise,  hard  by  the  throne  I 

For  on  thy  far  shore, 

Gently  drifted  before, 

We  may  find  the  lost  blossoms  that  once  were  our 
own. 

Ah,  beautiful  river, 

Flow  onward  forever ! 
Thou  art  grander  than  Avon,  and  sweeter  than  Ayr ; 

If  a  tree  has  been  shaken, 

If  a  star  has  been  taken, 
In  thy  bosom  we  look — bud  and  Pleiad  are  there  ! 


108  RHYMES  OF   THE  RIVER. 

I  take  up  the  old  words, 

Like  the  song  of  dead  birds, 

That  were  breathed  when  I  stood  farther  off  from 
the  sea  : 

When  I  heard  not  its  hymn, 

When  the  headlands  were  dim :  — 
Shall  I  ever  again  weave  a  rhythm  for  thee  ? 


LAZY. 


T  T  NDER  the  maple  tree  lying  supine, 

Timing  the  beat  of  a  pendulum  vine, 
Swinging  the  Dela wares  turning  to  wine. 

Gazing  straight  upward  a  mile  in  the  blue, 
Watching  a  cloud  that  has  nothing  to  do, 
Wishing  a  deed  for  an  acre  or  two  ; 

Nothing  to  do  but  come  down  in  the  rain, 
Born  of  the  mist  unto  Heaven  again, 
Nothing  to  sow  and  no  reaping  of  grain. 

Watching  a  bee  in  his  pollen  pant'loon 
Droning  him  home  in  the  chrysolite  noon, 
Ghost  of  a  drummer -boy  drumming  a  tune. 

Watching  a  jay  on  the  cherry  tree  nigh, 
Stranger  to  love,  with  its  cruel  bright  eye  ; 
What  of  that  jacket  as  blue  as  the  sky  ? 

Splashing  his  crest  with  the  cherry's  red  blood, 
Jauntiest  robber  that  ranges  the  wood, 
Nothing  will  name  him  but  blue  Robin  Hood. 


110  LAZY. 

Hearing  a  bird  with  her  English  all  right 
Calling  somebody  from  morning  till  night, 
Waiting  forever  the  mystic  "  Bob  White." 

Woman's  own  cousin  since  Adam  began, 
Beautiful  Voice  that  is  wanting  a  man, 
Quail  in  a  coif  of  the  time  of  Queen  Anne. 

Counting  the  leaves  as  they  drift  from  the  rose 
Strewing  with  fragrance  my  place  of  repose  ; 
Dying  ?     Ah  no,  only  changing  its  clothes. 

Watching  a  spider  pay  out  her  last  line, 
Working  at  Euclid's  Geometry  fine, 
Web  is  all  woven  and  weaver  will  dine  ! 

Watching  a  fly  laze  along  to  its  doom, 
Silken  the  meshes  but  death  in  the  loom, 
Shrouded  and  eaten  but  never  a  tomb  I 

Sparrow  a-drowse  on  a  limb  overhead, 
Opens  an  eye  when  the  spider  is  fed, 
Opens  a  bill  and  the  spider  is  dead  ! 


LAZY. 

Watching  a  butterfly  slowly  unfold, 
Crowning  a  post  with  a  blossom  of  gold 
Strange  as  the  rod  that  did  blossom  of  old. 

Hinged  on  a  life  is  the  duplicate  page, 
Lettered  in  light  by  a  wiser  than  sage, 
Lasting  a  summer  and  read  for  an  age. 

Burst  from  the  bonds  !     For  that  coffin  was  thine, 
Tenantless  thing  where  the  sycamores  shine, 
Riven  and  rent  and  the  worm  is  divine  ! 

Born  from  the  dust  and  its  veriest  slave, 
Hail  to  the  herald  direct  from  the  grave  ! 
Pinion  of  beauty,  resplendently  wave  ! 

Bringing  from  far,  what  no  angel  could  say, 
Something  of  them  who  have  vanished  away, 
Left  me  alone  on  this  amethyst  day. 

Rent  is  the  chrysalis  hid  in  the  sod, 
All  the  dear  tenantry  dwelling  abroad, 
Gone  through  the  gate  of  the  glory  of  God ! 


DEARBORN  OBSERVATORY. 

T^ROM  my  chamber  last  night  I  looked  out  on 

the  sky 

No  mortal  can  reach  without  waiting  to  die, 
And  I  saw  a  few  ships  of  Infinity's  fleet, 
And  the  light  at  their  bows  lit  the  dew  in  the  street 
That  dying  men  crush  with  irreverent  feet. 
Broadside  to  this  port  ridged  and  roughened  with 

graves, 
Not  a  boat  from  the  shore,  not  a  gun  from  the 

waves, 

There  they  lay  off  and  on  in  the  Blue  of  the  Blest 
Like  the  thoughts  of  the  Lord  in  His  sabbath  -  day 

rest ! 
Are  we  chained  here  for  liL  ?     Are  we  bound  to 

the  clod 
When  the  lark  with  a  song  springs  direct  from  the 

sod 
To  the  breakers  of  day  and  the  glory  of  God  ? 

IH 


DEARBORN  OBSER  VA  TOR  Y. 

Have  you  heard  of  the  man  who  was  calling  the  roll 
Of  the  stars  till  the  Seraphim  called  for  his  soul  ? 
Who  began  the  Lord's  census  and  prayed  for  clear 

night 

While  he  counted  for  life  the  squadrons  of  light  ? 
Do  you  know  how  the  Pleiads  made  sail  at  the 

word 

And  Arcturus  bore  down,  till  he  fancied  he  heard 
The  wash  of  the  sky  as  it  rocked  off  a  shore 
It  never  had  touched  at  a  signal  before  ! 
Port  of  Entry  for  stars  !     Where  great  admirals 

come 

And  flotillas  report  to  a  Herschel  at  home  — 
In  that  wonderful  tower  whose  window  commands 
Not  a  thing  in  the  universe  fashioned  with  hands. 
There 's  an  eye  at  the  window  that  never  can  sleep, 
That  no  ages  can  dim  and  that  never  can  weep  — 
Always  gazing  at  life,  never  seeing  the  graves, 
Though  the  land  with  its  tombs  mocks  the  sea  with 

its  waves  — 

That  beckons  a  world  and  it  dawns  into  sight, 
Gives  a  glance  at  the  blue  and  it  sparkles  with 

light. 
H 


114  DEARBORN  OBSERVATORY. 

Sweeps  a  field  that  the  Lord  had  forgotten  to  sow 
When  He  scattered  the  worlds  like  His  treasures 

of  snow, 

And  a  sun  blossoms  out  of  the  infinite  space 
Like  the  first  flower  of  Spring  in  God's  garden  of 

grace. 

Oh,  second  Fort  Dearborn  !  Oh,  Lookout  sublime ! 
Stand  fast  till  God's  morning  shall  break  upon  time ! 


JENNIE  JUNE. 
IKE  a  foundling  in  slumber,  the  summer  day 

Iay 

On  the  crimsoning  threshold  of  even, 
And  I  thought  that  the  glow  through  the  azure- 
arched  way 

Was  a  glimpse  of  the  coming  of  Heaven. 
There  together  we  sat  by  the  beautiful  stream, 
We  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  love  and  to  dream 

In  the  days  that  have  gone  on  before, 
These  are  not  the  same  days,  though  they  bear  the 
same  name, 

With  the  ones  I  shall  welcome  no  more. 

But  it  may  be  that  angels  are  culling  them  o'er 
For  a  Sabbath  and  summer  forever  ; 

When  the  years  shall  forget  the  Decembers  they 

wore, 
And  the  shroud  shall  be  woven,  no,  never. 

115 


116  JENNIE   JUNE. 

Iii  a  twilight  like  that,  Jennie  June  for  a  bride, 
Oh  !  what  more  of  the  world  could  one  wish  for 
beside, 

As  we  gazed  on  the  river  unrolled, 
Till  we  heard,  or  we  fancied,  its  musical  tide 

When  it  flowed  through  the  gateway  of  gold  ! 

"  Jennie  June,"  then  I  said,  "  let  us  linger  no  more 

"  On  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  river  ; 
"  Let  the  boat  be  unmoored,  and  be  muffled  the 
oar, 

"  And  we  '11  steal  into  heaven  together. 
"  If  the  angel  on  duty  our  coming  descries, 
"  You  have  nothing  to  do  but  throw  off  the  disguise 

"  That  you  wore  while  you  wandered  with  me, 
"  And  the  sentry  shall  say,  l  Welcome  back  to  the 
skies, 

"  '  We  long  have  been  waiting  for  thee.' ' 

Oh,  how  sweetly  she  spoke,  ere  she  uttered  a  word, 
With  that  blush,  partly  hers,  partly  even's  : 

And  a  tone  like  the  dream  of  a  song  we  once  heard, 
As  she  whispered,  "  This  way  is  not  heaven's, 


'  JENNIE   JUNE. 

"  For  the  river  that  runs  by  the  realm  of  the  blest 
"  Has  no  song  on  its  ripple,  no  star  on  its  breast : 

"  Oh  !  that  river  is  nothing  like  this  : 
"  For  it  glides  on  in  shadow,  beyond  the  world's 
West, 

"  Till  it  breaks  into  beauty  and  bliss." 

I  am  lingering  yet,  but  I  linger  alone, 
On  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  river  : 

'T  is  the  twin  of  that  day,  but  the  wave  where  it 

shone 
Bears  the  willow  -  tree's  shadow  for  ever. 


£  URNS'   CENTURY  SONG. 
I. 

T  T  OPE,  her  starry  vigil  keeping 

•*•  -1      O'er  a  Campbell  by  the  Clyde — 

By  the  Tweed  a  "  Wizard  "  sleeping  — 

"  Shepherd"  by  the  Yarrow's  side  — 
Land  of  glory,  song,  and  story, 
Land  of  mountains  and  of  men, 

Did  ye  dream  that  Song  could  die  ? 
Banks  and  braes  be  glad  again, 

ROBERT  BURNS  is  passing  by ! 

\ 
Everywhere,  everywhere, 

Smiles  will  break  and  tears  will  start, 
Making  rainbows  round  the  heart, 
Ploughman,  Brother,  BARD  OF  AYR  ! 

118 


BURNS'    CENTURY  SONG.  H9 

n. 

Heart  of  leal !     Can  this  be  dying, 

Coming  thus  sublimely  down  ! 
Lo,  an  hundred  winters  sighing 

Leave  unstrown  thy  holly  crown  I 
Not  in  sorrow  dawns  thy  morrow, 
"  Bonny  Jean"  is  by  thy  side, 

Making  life  and  love  keep  time ; 
Beauty  be  thy  deathless  bride, 

Weaving  all  our  hearts  in  rhyme  I 


HI. 

Heavy  heart  and  smoky  rafter 

Growing  light  with  Burns's  song  — 
Calmer  tears  and  clearer  laughter  — 

Plaided  bosoms  brave  and  strong ; 
Birds  are  singing,  blue -bells  ringing, 
Naked  Heart  in  open  palm  ! 

With  thy  "  days  of  auld  lang  syne," 
With  thy  Cotter's  evening  Psalm, 

Thou  hast  made  all  ages  thine. 


120  BURNS'    CENTURY   SONG. 

IV. 

Now  the  thrush's  silver  sonnet 

Trembling  from  the  blossom'd  thorn, 
Winter  floating  white  upon  it — 

Sweetest  Lyric  ever  born  ! 
BRUCE  is  breaking  — WALLACE  waking, 
From  the  clasp  of  mighty  Death, 

Morven  swells  the  Doric  song !  — 
Lads'  and  lassies'  blended  breath, 

Gushes  sweet  all  summer  long ! 


v. 

O'er  the  daisy  in  the  furrow 

Bending  low  with  loving  words  — 
By  the  mouse's  broken  burrow  — 

Songs  of  burnies  and  of  birds  — 
Breezes  blowing  —  rivers  flowing  — 
Hark,  the  beat  of  bonny  DOON, 

LOGAN,  DEVON,  AFTON,  AYR, 
Braided  in  a  pleasant  tune, 

"  HIGHLAND  MAKY"  in  the  choir  ! 


BURNS'    CENTURY  SONG.  121 

Everywhere,  everywhere, 
Smiles  will  break  and  tears  will  start, 
Making  rainbows  round  the  heart, 
Ploughman,  Brother,  BABD  OF  AYK  ! 


THE  COLORED   MARBLE. 

ON  marble  beds  where  violets  die 
And  the  moss  rose  pillows  its  pride, 
The  marble  looks  like  an  azure  sky 
Where  a  cloudless  day  has  died. 

The  years  go  by,  and  out  of  the  shroud 
The  statue  stands  naked  in  noon  ; 

Out  of  the  tint  and  out  of  the  cloud 
Of  a  long  -  forgotten  June  ! 


132 


FLO  WERS. 

T7LOWERS  bloom  in  Christ's  Sermon,  and  all 
r"1 

the  year  long 

You  can  gather  a  "  Sharon  "  from  Solomon's  Song. 


123 


THE  NEW  CRAFT  IN    THE   OFFING. 

'/"~T*  WAS  a  beautiful  night  on  a  beautiful  deep, 
And  the  man  at  the  helm  had  just  fallen 

asleep, 
And  the  watch  on  the  deck,  with  his  head  on  his 

breast, 

Was  beginning  to  dream  that  another's  it  pressed, 
When  the  look-out  aloft  cried,  "A  sail!  ho!   a 

sail!" 
And  the  question  and  answer  went  rattling  like 

hail: 
"  A  sail !  ho !  a  sail ! "    "  Where  away  ?  "    "  No'th- 

no'th-West!" 
"  Make  her  out  ?  "     "  No,  your  honor."     The  din 

drowned  the  rest. 

There  indeed  is  the  stranger,  the  first  in  these  seas, 
Yet  she  drives  boldly  on  in  the  teeth  of  the  breeze. 

124 


THE  NEW  CRAFT  IN    THE   OFFING.        125 

Now  her  bows  to  the  breakers  she  steadily  turns, 
Oh !  how  brightly  the  light  of  her  binnacle  burns ! 
Not  a  signal  for  Saturn  this  rover  has  given, 
No  salute  for  our  Venus,  the  flag-star  of  heaven ; 
Not  a  rag  or  a  ribbon  adorning  her  spars, 
She  has  saucily  sailed  by  "  the  red  planet  Mars ;" 
She  has  doubled  triumphant  the  cape  of  the  Sun 
And  the  sentinel  stars,  without  firing  a  gun  ! 
"Helm  a -port!"    "  Show  a  light !"    "  She  will 

run  us  aground  ! " 
"  Fire  a  gun  ! "    "  Bring  her  to ! "    "  Sail  a  -  hoy ! " 

"  Whither  bound  ?" 

Avast  there,  ye  lubbers  !     Leave  the  rudder  alone : 
'T  is  a  craft  in  commission  —  the  Admiral's  own  ; 
And  she    sails  with  sealed  orders,  unopened  as 

yet, 

Though  her  anchors  she  weighed  before  Lucifer 

set. 
Ah,  she  sails  by  a  chart  no  draughtsman   could 

make, 
Where  each  cloud  that  can  trail  and  each  wave 

that  can  break  ; 


126        THE  NEW  CRAFT  IN   THE   OFFING. 

Where  that  sparkling  flotilla,  the  Asteroids,  lie, 
Where  the  scarf  of  red  Morning  is  flung  on  the  sky ; 
Where  the  breath  of  the  sparrow  is  staining  the 

air  — 
On  the  chart  that  she  bears  you  will  find  them  all 

there  ! 
Let  her  pass  on  in  peace  to  the  port  whence  she 

came, 
With  her  trackings  of  fire  and  her  streamers  of 

flame ! 


THE    VANE  ON   THE  SPIRE. 


'S  an  arrow  aloft  with  a  feather'd  shaft 
That  never  has  flown  at  the  bow-string's 
draft, 

And  the  goldsmith  has  hidden  the  blacksmith's 
craft. 

For  its  heart  is  of  iron,  its  gleam  of  gold, 
It  is  pointed  to  pierce  and  barbed  to  hold, 
And  its  wonderful  story  is  hardly  told. 

It  is  poised  on  a  finger  from  sun  to  sun, 
And  it  catches  the  glimmer  of  dawn  begun, 
And  is  floating  in  light  when  the  day  is  done. 

And  it  turns  at  the  touch  of  a  viewless  hand, 
And  it  swings  in  the  air  like  a  wizard's  wand, 
By  the  tempest  whirled  and  the  zephyr  fanned. 


127 


128  THE    VANE   ON   THE  SPIKE. 

And  the  sinewy  finger  that  cannot  tire 
Is  the  lifted  hush  of  the  old  church  spire 
That  vanishes  out  as  heaven  is  nigher  ; 

And  the  arrow  upon  it  the  rusted  vane 
As  true  to  its  master  as  faith  to  fane, 
That  is  swinging  forever  in  sun  and  rain. 

Right  about  to  the  North  !   And  the  trumpets  blow 

And  the  shivering  air  is  dim  with  snow, 

And  the  earth  grows  dumb  and  the  brooks  run  slow ; 

And  the  shaggy  Arctic,  chilled  to  the  bone, 
Is  craunching  the  world  with  a  human  moan, 
And  the  clank  of  a  chain  in  the  frozen  zone ; 

And  the  world  is  dead  in  its  seamless  shroud, 
And  the  stars  wink  slow  in  the  rifted  cloud, 
And  the  owl  in  the  oak  complains  aloud. 

But  the  arrow  is  true  to  the  iceberg's  realm, 
As  the  rudder  staunch  in  the  ghastly  whelm 
With  a  hero  by  to  handle  the  helm  ! 


THE    VANE   ON   THE   SPIRE.  129 

Is  it  welded  with  frost  as  iron  with  fire  ? 
Up  with  a  blue -jacket !     Clamber  the  spire 
And  swing  it  around  to  the  point  of  desire  ! 

It  sways  to  the  East !     And  the  icy  rain 

With  the  storm's  "  long  roll "  on  the  window  pane 

And  a  diamond  point  on  the  crystal  vane. 

And  the  cattle  stand  with  the  wind  astern, 
And  the  routes  of  the  rain  on  eave  and  urn  — 
As  the  drops  are  halted  and  frozen  in  turn  — 

Are  such  pendants  of  wonder  as  cave  and  mine 
Never  gave  to  the  gaze  when  the  torches  shine, 
But  right  out  of  Heaven  and  half  divine  ! 

Ah,  it  swings  due  South  to  the  zephyr's  thrill ! 

In  the  yellow  noon  it  lies  as  still 

As  a  speckled  trout  by  the  drowsy  mill, 

While  the  bugle  of  Gabriel  wakes  the  sod 
And  £he  beautiful  life  in  the  speechless  clod, 
"Till  the  crowded  June  is  a  smile  for  God  ! 
i 


130  THE    VAXE    OK    THE   SPIRE. 

Resurrection  to  -  day  !     For  the  roses  spoke  ! 
Resurrection  to  -  day !     For  the  rugged  oak 
In  a  live  green  billow  rolled  and  broke. 

And  the  spider  feels  for  her  silken  strings, 

And  the  honey-bee  hums  and  the  world  has  wings, 

And  blent  with  the  blue  the  bluebird  sings. 

While  the  cloud  is  ablaze  with  the  bended  bow, 
And  the  waters  white  with  the  lilies'  snow, 
On  the  motionless  arrow,  all  in  a  row, 

Are  four  little  sparrows  that  pipe  so  small 
Their  carol  distils  as  the  dew  -  drops  fall, 
And  we  only  see  they  are  singing  at  all ! 

Now  the  arrow  is  swung  with  a  sweep  so  bold 
Where  the  Day  has  been  flinging  his  garments  gold 
'Till  they  stain  the  sky  with  a  glow  untold. 

Ah,  the  cardinal  point  of  the  wind  is  West ! 
And  the  clouds  bear  down  in  a  fleet  abreast, 
And  the  world  is  as  still  as  a  child  at  rest ! 


THE    VANE   ON   THE   SPIRE. 

There 's  a  binnacle  light  like  an  angry  star, 
And  the  growl  of  a  gun  with  its  crash  and  jar, 
And  the  roll  of  a  drum  where  the  angels  are  ! 

And  it  tumbles  its  freight  on  the  dancing  grain, 
And  it  beats  into  blossom  the  buds  again, 
And  it  brightens  a  world  baptized  in  rain, 

And  it  gladdens  the  earth  as  it  drifts  along, 
And  the  meadow  is  green  and  the  corn  is  strong, 
And  the  brook  breaks  forth  in  the  same  old  song 

And  I  looked  for  the  arrow — it  hung  there  yet, 
With  the  drops  of  the  rain  its  barb  was  wet, 
And  the  sun  shone  out  in  a  crimson  set ; 

And  behold,  aloft  in  the  ruddy  shine 
Where  the  crystal  water  again  was  wine, 
And  it  hallowed  the  dart  like  a  touch  divine ! 

Under  the  sun  and  under  the  moon, 
Silver  at  midnight,  golden  at  noon, 

Could  Dian  have  lost  it  out  of  her  hair  ? 

Phcebus's  quiver  have  shaken  it  there  ? 

That  wonderful  arrow  sweeping  the  air  f 


o 


DECORATION  DAY. 

|H,  be  dumb  all  ye  clouds 

As  the  dead  in  their  shrouds, 
Let  your  pulses  of  thunder  die  softly  away, 
Ye  have  nothing  to  do 
But  to  drift  round  the  blue, 
For  the  emerald  world  grants  a  furlough  to-day  ! 

Bud,  blossom,  and  flower 

All  blended  in  shower, 
In  the  grandest  and  gentlest  of  rains  shall  be  shed 

On  the  acres  of  God 

With  their  billows  of  sod 
Breaking  breathless  and  beautiful  over  the  dead  ! 

They  do  flush  the  broad  land 
With  the  flower -laden  hand, 

182 


DECORATION  DAY.  133 

Drift  the  dimples  of  graves  Avith  the  colors  of  even ; 
Where  a  BOY  IN  BLUE  dreams 
A  "  Forget-me-not"  gleams  — 

No  rain  half  so  sweet  ever  fell  out  of  Heaven  ! 

From  no  angel  was  caught 

The  magnificent  thought 
To  pluck  daisies  and  roses,  those  bravest  of  things, — 

For  they  stand  all  the  while 

In  their  graves  with  a  smile, — 
And  to  strew  with  live  fragrance  dead  lions  and 
kings  ! 

It  was  somebody  born, 

It  was  Rachel  forlorn, 

'Twas  the  love  they  named  Mary,  the  trust  they 
called  Ruth  ; 

'T  was  a  woman  who  told 

That  the  blossoms  unfold 
A  defiance  to  death  and  a  challenge  for  truth  ; 

That  the  violet's  eye, 

Though  it  sleep,  by  and  by 

Shall  watch  out  the  long  age  in  the  splendor  of 
youth. 


134  DECORA  TION  DA  Y. 

Ah,  she  hallowed  the  hour 

When  she  gathered  the  flower  ; 
When  she  said,  "  This  shall  emblem  the  fame  of 
my  brave ! " 

When  she  thought,  "  This  shall  borrow 

"  Brighter  azure  to-morrow ;" 
When  she  laid  it  to  -  day  on  the  crest  of  a  grave  ! 


A    WINTER  PSALM. 

A    SONG  for  the  meek  old   Mountains  —  the 
f*-     Mountains  grand  and  strong, 
That  lifted  winter  clear  of  earth  all  spring  and 

summer  long, 
And  made  it  gay  with  evergreen,  and  then  with 

one  accord 
They  shouldered  the  snows  in  silence  and  stood 

before  the  Lord. 

They  did  it  for  the  roses'  sake  —  that  robins  might 

be  born, 
And  Indian  gold  might  flash  along  the  rank  and 

file  of  corn, 
And  sheafy  wigwam  everywhere  lift  up  its  tawny 

s.cone, 
And  Rachel  sing  the  harvest  home  where  harvest 

moons  had  shone ; 

135 


136  A    WINTER  PSALM. 

They  did  it  for  the  little  graves  —  bade  flowers 

and  children  say, 
We  '11  smile  together  by  and  by  and  fill  the  world 

with  May  I 

Well  done  for  the  grim  old  Mountains  !  And  well 
for  the  King  who  laid 

Upon  their  shoulders  stout  and  brave  his  gold  and 
crimson  blade. 

'T  was  meet  that  the  princely  Morning,  with  ban 
ners  all  unfurled, 

Should  knight  them  with  his  royal  touch  across 
the  blushing  world. 

As   softly   as   on   mountain   air  beatitudes   were 

shed, 
As  gently  as  the  lilies  bud  among  the  words  He 

said, 
So  did  the  dear  old  Mountains  lay  the  sparkling 

winter  down 
Upon  the  poor  dumb  bosom  of  a  world  so  bare  and 

brown  — 


A    WINTER  PSALM.  137 

So  noiselessly  and  silently,  such  radiance  and  rest ! 
As  if  a  snowy  wing  should  fold  upon  a  sparrow's 
breast. 

Far  through  the  dim  uncertain  air,  as  still  as  asters 

blow, 
The  downy  drowsy  feet  untold  tread  out  the  world 

we  know ; 
Upon  the  pine's  green  fingers  set,  flake  after  flake 

they  land, 
And  flicker  with  a  feeble  light  amid  the  shadowy 

band  ; 
Upon  the  meadows  broad  and  brown  where  maids 

and  mowers  sung ; 
Upon  the  meadows  gay  with  gold  the  dandelions 

flung; 
Upon  the  farmyard's  homely  realm,  on  ricks  and 

rugged  bars, 
Till  riven  oak  and  strawy  heap  were  domes  and 

silver  spars ; 
The  cottage  was  an  eastern  dream  with  alabaster 

'eaves, 
And  lilacs  growing  round  about  with  diamonds  for 

leaves ; 


138  A    WINTEX  PSALM. 

The  well  -  sweep  gray  above  the  roof  a  silver  accent 
stood, 

And  silver  willows  wept  their  way  to  meet  a  silver 
wood ; 

The  russet  groves  had  blossomed  white  and  budded 
full  with  stars, 

The  fences  were  in  uniform,  the  gate-posts  were 
hussars ; 

The  chimneys  were  in  turbans  all,  with  plumes  of 
crimson  smoke, 

And  the  costly  breaths  were  silver  when  the  laugh 
ing  children  spoke  ; 

And  gem  and  jewel  everywhere  along  the  tethers 
strung 

Where  mantling  roses  once  had  climbed  and  morn 
ing  glories  swung. 

So  through  the  dim,  uncertain  air,  as  still  as  asters 
blow, 

The  downy  drowsy  feet  untold  tread  out  the  world 
we  know. 

The  glimmer  of  the  violet's  eye  goes  out  beneath 
their  tread, 


A    WINTER  PSALM.  139 

White  silence  lines  the  ringing  street  and  drifts 

around  the  dead, 
But  more  than  all  they  trample  out  the  crooked 

paths  of  men, 
And  make  the  stained  and  wrinkled  world  all  clean 

and  young  again  ! 
The  summer  rain  hath  won  sweet  song  from  many 

a  tuneful  soul 
Since  God  did  paint  day's  alphabet  upon  the  cloudy 

scroll, 
But  who  for  the  snow  shall  give  us  one  grand 

angelic  psalm, 
The  beautiful  feet  of  the  snow  —  the  feet  so  pure 

and  calm  ? 

Thanks  be  to  God  for  winter  time  !    That  bore  the 

Mayflower  up, 
To  pour  amid  New  England  snows  the  treasures 

of  its  cup, 
To  fold  them  in  its  icy  arms,  those  sturdy  Pilgrim 


And  weld  an  iron  brotherhood  around  their  Christ 
mas  fires  ! 


140  A    WINTER  PSALM. 

Thanks  be  to  God  for  winter  time  !  How  strong 
the  pulses  play, 

And  ah,  the  pulses  of  the  bells  are  not  less  sweet 
than  they ! 

Dear  heart  of  winter,  throb  again  with  old  melo 
dious  beat, 

Around  thy  glow  for  ever  heard  the  play  of 
childhood's  feet, 

Worn  smooth  and  beautiful  the  Rock  where  later 
Pilgrims  come 

To  harvest  all  their  loves  and  hopes  around  the 
hearth  of  home  1 


SAILING   OF  COLUMBUS. 

T  MMORTAL  they  made  it,  if  anything  could, 
-*•      That  wonderful  day  when  Columbus's  brood 
Slipped  silently  out  from  the  earth's  azure  eaves, — 
Like  a  flock  of  young  swallows  when  summer-time 

leaves, 

And  plumed  up  their  pinions  and  parted  the  blue, 
And  the  sky  was  unrent,  and  the  trinity  through ! 
Shook  off  the  old  world  and  shook  out  for  the  new ! 
Were  they  shrived  ere  they  went  ?  Were  their 

sins  all  forgiven  ? 
For  they  '11  flutter  their  wings  at  the  windows  of 

Heaven  ! 
Hark !  The  Admiral's  hail :  "  World  ahoy !  Whither 

bound?" 

And  the  answer  comes  back  on  a  breaker  of  sound, 
And  the  flag  of  the  Andes  in  fire  is  unfurled, 
And  Niagara's  thunder  of  welcome  is  hurled, 
"  We  're  at  anchor,  your  honor  !     It  is  Liberty's 

World  ! " 

141 


THE  CHRYSALIS. 

A    COFFIN  gray  and  spotted  with  gold 
**•     With  a  mulberry  leaf  for  bier, 
And  silken  shroud  with  a  silver  fold, 
On  a  shelf  is  lying  near. 

They  say  when  April  comes  to  the  door, 
And  the  blue -eyed  foundlings  wake, 

The  humble  thing  that  was  dead  before 
From  its  silken  sleep  shall  break  ; 

A  folio  flower,  in  duplicate  done, 
Like  the  face  in  the  eyes  of  a  wife, 

Two  leaves  shall  open  slow  in  the  sun 
With  a  dissyllabic  life. 


143 


o 


THE  FLAG. 

|H,  glimpse  of  clear  heaven, 

Artillery  riven, 
The  Fathers'  old  fallow  God  seeded  with  stars, 
Thy  furrows  were  turning 
When  plowshares  were  burning, 
And  the  half  of  each  bout  is  redder  than  Mars  ! 

Flaunt  forever  thy  story 

Oh,  wardrobe  of  glory ! 
Where  the  Fathers  laid  down  their  mantles  of  blue, 

And  challenged  the  ages, — 

Oh,  grandest  of  gages  !  — 
In  covenant  solemn,  eternal,  and  true. 


148 


THE  HERO   OF  NEW  HAMBURG. 

r  I  "HE  grandest  charge  of  cavalry 

That  ever  was  seen  or  sung 
The  solitary  trooper  made^ 

Who  spoke  in  the  Latin  tongue. 
Bring  out  your  Roman  rider 

Who  carried  the  Gulf  by  storm, 
And  the  dumb  earth  closed  forever 

And  shrouded  his  vanished  form ; 
Sowed  like  the  seed  that  has  fallen, 

'Mid  the  multitude's  acclaim, 
How  it  blossomed  through  the  ages 

Till  it  ripened  into  fame  ! 

I  can  match  your  daring  rider, 
Tell  the  Roman  not  to  wait ! 

There  ?s  another  hard  behind  him 
Drawing  rein  at  Glorv's  grate  I 


THE  HERO   OF  NEW  HAMBURG.  145 

Comes  the  deathless  Engineer, 

Clears  the  ages  at  a  leap, 
Crowds  the  flock  of  years  together 
As  a  shepherd  folds  his  sheep  — 
Right  across  historic  pages 

With  a  clatter  and  a  clank, 
Craunches  time  to  scintillations, 
Closes  up  the  broken  rank, 
Smites  the  Roman  in  the  flank  ! 

Nevermore  shall  mighty  boatswain 

Pipe  all  hands  with  panting  fire  ; 
Sweep  thy  soul,  oh  lion-hearted, 

As  Apollo  swept  the  lyre  ! 
Loose  thy  grasp,  immortal  Brakeman ! 

Flinging  free  the  iron  rein, 
Earth!  be  taught  articulation, 

Learn  by  heart  the  dread  refrain, 
Jar  and  thunder  back  again  ! 
Dare  ye  quench  Elijah's  chariot, 

Lightning  touch  and  Titan  tread  ? 
Abandon  every  wheel  and  axle, 

Furl  forever,  flags  of  red  ! 

J 


146  THE  HERO   OF  NEW  HAMBURG. 

Halt  him  not  with  battle  lantern, 
Show  a  light  as  white  as  day  ! 

Let  him  pass,  O  signal  stations, 

His  for  aye  "  THE  RIGHT  OF  WAY  ! " 

Flanked  by  rugged  rock  and  river, 

Death  and  double  side  by  side  — 
Hand  upon  the  mighty  bridle, 

See  the  gallant  horseman  ride ; 
See  the  ponderous  creature  coming, 

Sway  and  swing  alolig  the  track, 
Brave  postilion  in  the  saddle, 

Flying  chambers  at  his  back  — 
Chambers  bright  with  hope  and  dreaming, 

Chambers  dark  with  terror  dire  — 
Chambers  ?     Altars  for  a  demon's 

Dreadful  sacrifice  of  fire  ! 


On  it  comes,  the  sinewed  being, 
With  its  rider  grand  and  calm, 

Watch  and  heart  keep  steady  beating 
Like  an  old  long-meter  psalm  ! 


THE  HERO    OF  NEW  HAMBURG.          147 

Stolen  out  of  Eastern  story, 

Garbed  in  brass,  this  Arab's  dream 
Plunges  through  the  tunneled  thunder, 

Cambric  needle  through  a  seam  ; 
Flickering  dimly  in  the  distance, 

Flaring  broadly  into  sight 
With  his  dawn  of  human  making, 

Break  of  day  in  heart  of  night ! 
Grumbling  in  the  lairs  of  mountains, 

Roaring  down  the  valley  broad, 
Rounding  out  a  sturdy  headland, 

Blazing  like  a  Grecian  god  ! 


Now  this  rider  strangely  changes — 
Touch  him  with  a  wizard's  wand, 
He  shall  seem  a  wondrous  gunner 

With  the  lanyard  in  his  hand  ; 
Taking  sight  across  the  kingdoms, 
Cloud  by  day,  by  night  a  flame, 
He  trains  his  winged  artillery, 
At  a  target  taking  aim, 
Sure  to  watch  if  not  to  pray, 


148  TIIE  HERO   OF  NEW  HAMBURG. 

Drift  December,  blossom  May, 
At  a  target  night  and  day, 
Full  a  thousand  miles  away 
Taking  aim  ! 

Columned  smokes  built  high  and  mighty 

Colonnade  the  dome  of  night ; 
Kindles  like  a  face  the  dial 

With  the  bursts  of  furnace  light, 
And  the  rider  at  his  window, 

Watching  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
Sees  the  friendly  world  to  meet  him 
Coming  down  the  track  the  while, 
Sixty  seconds  make  a  mile  ! 

Halt  him  on  your  rounds,  ye  Angels, 

Swinging  wide  the  lights  of  God ! 
Watchmen,  flash  afar  the  signal, 

"  Death  is  waiting  down  the  road !  " 
Halt  him  with  your  dropping  lanterns, 

Shed  like  stars  from  ripened  sky  — 
Halt  him,  glances  red  and  lurid, 

Glaring  like  an  angry  eye  ! 


THE  HERO    OF  NEW  HAMBURG.  149 

All  run  down  the  clocks  of  danger, 

Dials  with  the  sunshine  passed  ! 
Come  the  keen  shrill  cry  and  challenge, 

Death  and  Duty  meet  at  last ! 
Now  transfigured  stands  the  rider, 

Flinging  down  his  rude  disguise, 
Sturdy  hand  upon  the  bridle, 

Telling  how  a  hero  dies. 
''  Hold  her  hard,"  he  bade  the  brakeman, 

Clutched  the  monster  by  the  throat 
Till  the  bell  with  sudden  clangor 

Tolled  as  if  the  sexton  smote. 
And  the  grand  rebellious  creature 

Plunged  into  the  empty  air, 
Swung  him  out  to  resurrection 

Clad  in  Fame's  immortal  wear ! 
Born  alive  to  song  and  story 

Comes  this  Engineer  again, 
Comes  this  man  to  plead  for  honor 

As  the  gage  of  kingly  men  ; 
Pleading  that  the  grace  of  dying 

Is  the  rarest  grace  of  all ; 
That  the  earth's  sublimest  heroes 

Never  heard  a  bugle  call ; 


150  THE  HERO   OF  NEW  HAMBURG. 

That  the  clock  of  Christ's  own  ages 
Never  yet  had  sounded  "  one," 

If  this  planet's  grandest  jewel 
Had  been  nothing  but  a  crown  ! 

To  his  steed  they  lashed  Mazeppa, 

Smithfield  clanked  with  martyrs'  chains, 
But  this  man,  bound  round  with  honor, 

Gathering  up  the  iron  reins, 
Free  as  Chimborazo's  eagle 

Flaps  his  pinion  over  head, 
Charged  forlorn  at  utter  danger 

As  if  Death  itself  were  dead ! 
Halt  him  not  with  battle  lantern, 

Show  a  light  as  white  as  da}^ ! 
Let  him  pass,  O  signal  stations, 

His  for  aye  "  THE  BIGHT  OF  WAY  ! " 


THE   GOSPEL   OF   THE  OAK. 

WAR   TIME,  1S63. 

UP  to  the  Sun  magnificently  near, 
The  Lord  did  build  a  Californian  oak, 
And  took  no  Sabbath  in  the  thousandth  year, 

But  builded  on  until  it  bravely  broke 
Into  that  realm  wherein  the  morning  light 
Walks  to  and  fro  upon  the  top  of  night ! 
Around  that  splendid  shaft  no  hammers  rang, 
Nor  giants  wrought  nor  truant  angels  sang, 
But  gentle  winds  and  painted  birds  did  bear 
Its  corner  -  stones  of  glory  through  the  air  ; 
Grand  volumes  green  rolled  up  like  cloudy  weather, 
And  birds  and  stars  went  in  and  out  together ; 
When  Day  on  errands  from  the  Lord  came  down, 
It  stepped  from  Heaven  to  that  leafy  crown ! 

God's  mighty  mast  with  all  its  sails  unfurled, 
That  ought  to  make  a  Druid  of  the  world, 

151 


152  THE   GOSPEL    OF   THE   OAK. 

Some  Vandal  girdled  with  a  zone  of  death, 
A  life  of  ages  perished  in  a  breath ! 
Good  night,  Live  Oak !     Proud  admiral,  farewell ! 
The    world   has  wailed  when  meaner  monarchs 
fell! 

The  year  went  on,  and  with  it  marched  sublime, 
Month  after  Month,  the  journeymen  of  Time. 
Then  came  the  May,  such  wings  as  angels  wear, 
Buds  in  her  hands  and  blossoms  in  her  hair  : 
Above  that  oak  she  shook  her  flowing  sleeves  — 
The  poor  dead  tree  laughed  out  with  living  leaves  ! 
Thank  God !     Too  vast,  too  grand  to  die  forlorn 
It  lived   right  on  !      Brave  heart  of  oak,  good 
morn  ! 

I  'd  be  a  Roman  for  the  omen  grand 

That  thunders  on  the  left  through  all  the  land  — 

God  and  the  Fathers'  tree  forever  stand  ! 

Oh,  growth  immortal,  reddened  in  the  rain 

That  beats  out  hearts  as  tempests  beat  the  grain, 

All  wrongs  died  out  like  breath  upon  a  blade, 

A  hunted  world  fled  panting  to  thy  shade  — 


THE   GOSPEL   OF   THE   OAK.         .         153 

Thy  roots  have  searched  earth's  bosom  all  around, 
Felt  out  the  graves  that  make  it  holy  ground  — 
Like  living  hands  with  love  and  faith  been  laid 
In  benediction  on  the  sleeping  dead ! 


THE   TWO  JOHNS. 

T~\O  you  think  we  are  crushed  out  of  loving  and 
•*-''     living 

By  the  fall  of  a  clod,  when  the  planet  is  giving 
To  the  delicate  foot  of  an  ounce  of  a  wren, 
And  then  surges  right  up  as  she  lifts  it  again  ? 
Oh,  Gibeon's  Sun  !     He  is  yet  under  orders, 
You  can  halt  him  to  -  day  on  death's  gloomy  bor 
ders  ; 
Bid  brave  thoughts  and  grand  deeds  the  dead 

Joshua  play  — 

"  Stand  still,  mighty  Sun ! "  and  the  blaze  shall 
obey. 

Take  a  page   of  blind  JOHN  that  angels  have 

tramped 
Till  it  looks  as  if  stars  broke  ranks  and  encamped  — 

154 


THE    TWO  JOHNS.  155 

So  strown  about  with  fine  gold  from  Ormus  and 

Ind 
That  you  wonder  how  angels  could  ever  have 

sinned, 

When  old  English  brocade  at  such  exquisite  cost, 
To  tell  the  strange  story  of  "  Paradise  Lost  " 
Did  bankrupt  the  bard,  so  nothing  remained 
To  tell  us  the  story  of  Eden  "  Regained." 
Look  down  on  the  page  and  declare  if  you  can 
What  business   the   grave -digger  had  with  the 

man ! 

\ 

Dare  Hamlet's  own  sexton,  or  one  of  his  tribe, 
Lay  an  ounce  of  dead  clay  upon  Cromwell's  old 

scribe  ? 
Those   angels   of  his — they  have  put  them  to 

rout ! 

Those  angels  of  his  —  they  have  lifted  him  out ! 
As  free  of  the  ages  as  the  winds  of  the  waves, 
And  abolished  that  gloomy  old  fashion  of  graves  ! 

In  this  Christendom's  realm,  in  some  year  of  our 

Lord, 
Men  attacked  with  a  fagot  the  soul  of  a  word  ; 


156  THE    TWO   JOHNS. 

Ah,  hundreds  of  years  Christmas  carols  were  sung, 
Ere  they  dwelt  in  this  world  and  spoke  in  our 

tongue 
Who   groped   in   the    ashes  where  martyrs  were 

chained, 

If  perchance  a  live  coal  of  the  embers  remained, 
And  they  blew  it  to  life  in  the  name  of  the  kings, 
And  the  books  of  this  MILTON  all  took  to  their 

wings 

Like  his  own  bird -of -paradise,  crimson  and  gold, 
And  the  princes  grew  warm  as  the  ashes  grew  cold ! 
'T  was  as  if  some  old  Vandal  should  vainly  aspire 
To  strike  David  dumb  by  just  burning  his  lyre  ; — 
The  books  played  Elijah  —  left  their  mantle  be 
hind, 
And  it  fell  and  unfurled,  till  it  kindled  mankind. 

And  that  Prince  of  all  Pilgrims,  the  other  twin 

JOHN, — 

He  will  walk  in  his  sleep  till  the  ages  are  gone  ; 
Blow  softly,  oh  Angel !    Let  him  slumber  right  on. 
With  the  swing  of  the  sledge  for  the  music  of  flutes 
He  beat  up  the  world  for  celestial  recruits  ; — 


THE    TWO   JOHNS.  157 

He  dreamed  himself  through  to  the  "  Beautiful 

Gate," 
With  "  Christian"  for  comrade  and  "  Mercy"  to 

wait. 
Time's   sentries  cry  "  halt ! "     Hark  the  sturdy 

reply : 

Oh,  be  lifted,  ye  gates,  for  old  BUNYAN  goes  by ! 
Pass  on,  grand  crusader  !     Hearts  warm  to  thy 

name  — 
Good  night  to  thy  form  but  good  morn  to  thy  fame ! 


BEAUTIFUL   "MAY" 

,  have  you  not  seen  on  some  morning  in  June, 
When  the  flowers  were  in  tears  and  the 

forest  in  tune, 

And  the  billows  of  dawn  broke  bright  on  the  air, 
On  the  breast  of  the  brightest  a  star  clinging  there  ? 
Some  Sentinel  Star,  not  ready  to  set, 
Forgetting  to  wane  and  watching  there  yet  ? 
How  you  gazed  on  'that  vision  of  beauty  awhile, 
How  it  wavered  till  won  by  the  light  of  God's 

smile, 
How  it  passed  through  the  portals  of  pearl  like  a 

bride, 
How  it  paled  as  it  passed,  and  the  Morning  Star 

died! 

The  sky  was  all  blushes,  the  world  was  all  bliss, 
And  the  prayer  of  your  heart,  "  Be  my  ending  like 

this!" 

158 


BEAUTIFUL   "MAY."  159 

So  my  beautiful  MAY  passed  away  from  life's  even, 
So  the  blush  of  her  being  was  blended  with  Heaven ; 
So  the  bird  of  my  bosom  fluttered  up  to  the  dawn — 
Ah,  a  window  was  open — my  darling  was  gone  — 
A  truant  from  time,  from  tears,  and  from  sin, 
For  the  angel  on  watch  took  the  wanderer  in  ! 
When  she  warbles  to  me  the  New  Song  that  she 

sings, 

I  shall  know  her  again  notwithstanding  her  wings, 
By  those  eyes  full  of  heaven  —  by  the  light  on  her 

hair  — 
And  the  smile  she  wore  here  she  will  surely  wear 

there  I 

• 


THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS. 

r  I  "O  claim  the  Arctic  came  the  Sun, 

With  banners  of  the  burning  zone  ; 
Unrolled  upon  their  airy  spars 
They  froze  beneath  the  light  of  stars  ; 
And  there  they  float,  those  streamers  old, 
Those  Northern  Lights,  forever  cold  ! 


160 


INDIAN   SUMMER. 

'T^HEN  past  the  yellow  regiments  of  corn 

*•     There  came  an  Indian  Maiden,  autumn  born, 
And  June  returned  and  held  her  by  the  hand, 
And  led  Time's  smiling  Ruth  through  all  the  land ; 
A  veil  of  golden  air  was  o'er  her  flung, 
The  South  wind  whispered  and  the  robins  sung. 


161 


THE  SHATTERED  RAINBOW. 

\  ~\  7  HEN  blazed  the  trinket  of  the  cloud  abroad, 

The  bent  and  broken  jewelry  of  God, 
That  fragment  of  a  ring  —  its  other  part 
Was  lost,  I  dreamed,  within  the  forest's  heart. 
And  when  October  came  with  eager  clasp, 
The  jewel  shivered  in  his  frosty  grasp 
And  showered  the  maples  with  celestial  red — 
The  oaks  were  sunsets  though  the  days  were  dead, 
The  green  was  gold,  the  willows  drooped  in  wine, 
The  ash  was  fire,  the  humblest  shrub  divine. 


182 


FIRE  AND    WATER. 

TV  /[  AGNIFICENT  AGE !  When  water  and  fire, 
•*•*•»   The  lamb  and  the  lion,  together  conspire, 
And  the  atom  of  rain  the  robins  are  drinking 
Can  set  the  dull  iron  to  throbbing  and  thinking. 
It  enters  the  heart  of  a  ship  in  her  sleep  — 
There 's  a  cloud  on  the  sky  —  a  wake  on  the  deep — 
There 's  a  soul  in  the  oak  that  would  kindle  a 

king, 
And  she  crashes  away  without  lifting  a  wing  ! 

Take  the  old  "  Franklin  press,"  where  the  dead 

were  laid  out, 

And  the  printer  in  mourning  went  plodding  about, 
Till  a  creak  and  a  groan  broke  the  pages'  repose, 
And  the  specters  in  sheets,  one  by  one,  in  their 

clothes, 
To  a  late  resurrection  reluctantly  rose  ! 

1f>3 


164  FIRE  AND    WATER. 

Now  inspire  the  machine  with  flood  and  with  flame, 

And  call  it  a  brother  and  give  it  a  name  ! 

It   comes  down  to  the  work  with  a  will  and  a 

clank, 
Strikes  the  types  in  the  face  and  the  wrongs  in  the 

flank; 

In  the  flash  of  an  eye  the  creature  has  caught 
And  kindled  and  glowed   with   the   life  of  the 

thought ! 

Stand  clear  of  the  thing  !     It  is  nearing  the  brink 
Where  a  being  unborn  is  beginning  to  think ! 
It  flutters  its  plumage,  and  drifts  the  world  white — 
And  it  snows  down  the  ages  its  treasures  of  light ! 
It  flutters  its  plumage  —  this  marvelous  bird, — 
Put  a  lock  on  your  heart  and  beware  of  the  word 
That  it  pulses  abroad,  for  creation  has  heard. 
The  lightning's  vernacular  thunder,  is  dumb, 
The  bolts  strike  the  word,  talk  English  and  come ; 
The  surge  tells  the  billow,  the  breakers  repeat, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  sea  wash  the  words  to  your 

feet, 

Dry -shod  from  the  anchorage  down  in  the  brine, 
Swung  up  by  the  cable,  a  creature  divine. 


FIRE  AND    WATER.  165 

See  the  forge's  first-born  with  its  sinews  of  steel, 
A  nerve  at  each  lever  and  axle  and  wheel, 
All  ready  to  fly  and  just  ready  to  feel, 
Pluck  out  of  its  caskets  great  handfuls  of  power, 
The  flocks  of  mankind  all  shorn  in  an  hour 
And  the  fleeces  just  granted  this  Thing  for  a  dower, 
To  weave  as  it  went  a  wonderful  robe 
To  be  flung  on  the  sea  and  apparel  the  globe  ! 
Born  last  of  a  furnace  and  first  of  a  dream, 
It  learned  elocution  from  eagles  that  scream  ; 
Lo,  the  flash  of  its  eye  as  it  kindles  the  track 
With  the  wild  at  its  front  and  the  world  at  its 
back! 

I  beg  you  to  think  of  the  pioneer's  stroke 
That  the  sleep  of  the  wilderness  lazily  broke  : 
The  blow  of  that  axe  was  the  beat  of  the  clock 
That  timed  the  whole  route  from  Plymouth's  gray 

rock. 
Now  you  bend  your  ear  down  to  the  marvelous 

wire, 

That  orbit  man  strung  for  articulate  fire, — 
For  globe  and  for  lightning  a  nerve.and  a  lyre, — 


166  FIRE  AND    WATER. 

And  you  start  at  a  grander  chronometer's  beat, 
As  strong  and  distinct  as  a  step  in  the  street, 
Away  there  in  the  desert,  away  here  in  the  mart, 
So  near  that  you  think  it  the  beat  of  your  heart, 
When  the  silver  -  bound  laurel  lay  fast  in  its  place, 
And  they  gave  to  the  work  its  finishing  grace, 
And  you  heard  with  your  soul,  when  the  hammer 

let  fall, 

Drove  the  golden  spike  home  for  good  and  for  all ! 
That  couplet  of  iron  —  match  the  line  if  you  can, 
The  grandest  of  epics  yet  uttered  by  man  — 
Has  heaved  up  the  sky,  reft  the  blue  from  the 

green ! 

See  the  western  horizon  sublimely  careen 
To  let  in  the  East  and  its  kingdoms  between  ! 


"ATLANTIC." 


A  Y,  build  her  long  and  narrow  and  deep ! 
•*•  *•  She  shall  cut  the  sea  with  a  scimetar's  sweep, 
Whatever  betides  and  whoever  may  weep  ! 

Bring  out  the  red  wine  !     Lift  the  glass  to  the  lip ! 
With  a  roar  of  great  guns,  and  a  "  Hip  !  hip  ! 
"  Hurrah !  *'  for  the  craft,  we  will  christen  the  ship ! 

Dash  a  draught  on  the  bow!     Ah,  the  spar  of 

white  wood 

Drips  into  the  sea  till  it  colors  the  flood 
With  the  very  own  double  and  symbol  of  blood  I 

Now  out  with  the  name  of  the  monarch  gigantic 
That  shall  queen  it  so  grandly  when  surges  are 

frantic ! 
Child  of  fire  and  of  iron,  God  save  the  ATLANTIC  I 

161 


168  "A  TL  AN  Tier 

All  freighted  with  power  below  and  above, 
The  heart  of  a  fiend  and  the  wing  of  a  dove  — 
Tumble  in  the  brave  cargo  of  life  and  of  love  I 

Good  for  a  thousand  souls  !     Hustle  them  in ! 
Your  mother  and  mine  shall  the  census  begin  ; 
Then  tell  off  the  children  too  little  to  sin  ! 

With  furnace  of  fire  and  forest  of  mast, 

She  can  conquer  the  calm  and  rally  the  blast ; 

But  fuel  is  costly  !     Coal-heavers  avast ! 

Ah,  those  ebony  heaps  that  cumber  the  hold 
Can  never  be  reckoned  in  silver  and  gold — 
Ten  lives  to  the  ton,  and  an  anguish  untold  ! 

Alas  for  the  lack  of  a  handful  of  coals  ; 
Alas  for  the  ship  that  is  haunted  with  souls  ; 
Alas  for  the  bell  that  eternally  tolls  ! 

All  aboard,  my  fine  fellows  !     "  Up  anchor  ! "  the 

word — 

Ah,  never  again  shall  that  order  be  heard, 
For  two  worlds  will  be  mourning  ye  gone  to  a.  third ! 


"  A  TLANTICr  169 

To  the  trumpet  of  March  wild  gallops  the  sea ; 
The  white  -  crested  troopers  are  under  the  lee  — 
Old  World  and  New  World  and  Soul  -World  are 
three 

Great  garments  of  rain  wrap  the  desolate  night ; 
Sweet  Heaven  disastered  is  lost  to  the  sight ; 
"  ATLANTIC,"  crash  on  in  the  pride  of  thy  might ! 
With  thy  look-out's  dim  cry,  "  One  o'clock,  and 
all  right!" 

Ho,  down  with   the   hatches !      The   seas   come 

aboard ! 

All  together  they  come,  like  a  passionate  word 
Like  pirates  that  put  every  soul  to  the  sword ! 

Their  black  flag  all  abroad  makes  murky  the  air, 
But  the  ship  parts   the  night  as  a  maiden  her 

hair  — 
Through  and  through  the  thick  gloom,  from  land 

here  to  land  there, 
Like  the  shuttle  that  weaves  for  a  mourner  to 

wear ! 


170  "ATLANTIC." 

Good  night,  proud  "  ATLANTIC  ! "     One  tick  of 

the  clock, 

And  a  staggering  craunch  and  a  shivering  shock — 
'T  is  the  flint  and  the  steel !     'T  is  the  ship  and 

the  rock ! 

Deathless  sparks  are  struck  out  from  the  bosoms 
of  girls, 

From  the  stout  heart  of  manhood  in  scintillant 
whirls, 

Like  the  stars  of  the  Flag  when  the  banner  un 
furls! 

What  hundreds  went  up  unto  God  in  their  sleep  ! 
What  hundreds  in  agony  baffled  the  deep  — 
Nobody  to  pray  and  nobody  to  weep  ! 

Alas  for  the  flag  of  the  single  "  White  Star," 
With  light  pale  and  cold  as  the  woman's  hands  are 
Who,  froze  in   the   shrouds,   flashed   her  jewels 

afar, 
Lost  her  hold  on  the  world,  and  then  clutched  at  a 

spar ! 


"ATLANTIC,"  171 

God  of  mercy  and  grace  !     How  the  bubbles  come 

up 

With  souls  from  the  revel,  who  stayed  not  to  sup ; 
Death  drank  the  last  toast,  and  then  shattered  the 

cup  ! 

Who  crushed  these  poor  hearts  that  wild  terror 

environ  ?  — 

Atlantic  of  water  ?     Atlantic  of  iron  ? 
The   den   where   they   bearded    the   granite   old 

lion? 
The  God  of  the  sparrows  ?     A  breath  from  Mount 

Zion? 

Bring  the  World  into  court !     Bid  the  verdict  be 

given  ! 

"  To  this  true  word  we  render,  resistlessly  driven, 
"  And  so  say  we  all — NOT  GUILTY,  'fore  Heaven ! " 

Poor  handful  of  carbon  !     Call  humanity's  roll 
For  the  fellow  who  thought,  "  Ah,  how  costly  is 

coal!" 
He  loses  who  bids  any  price  for  his  soul ! 


172  "  A  TLANTIC." 

And  Christ  died  for  this  man  —  this  pitiful  crea 
ture  ! 

Made  like  the  noblest  in  fashion  and  feature  — 
Saint   John    the    Belov'd    and    the    Wilderness 
Preacher ! 

Too  sordid  for  soul  and  too  subtle  for  sod, 
Let  us  lock  out  of  heart  the  poor  animate  clod, 
And  leave  the  new  Cain  and  his  brother  with  God ! 


In  the  clash  of  the  leaves  of  the  frantic  woods, 
And  the  turbulent  whirl  of  the  angry  floods, 
And  the  rumble  and  roar  of  the  cloudy  broods, 

In  the  height  of  the  storm,  you  have  sometimes 

heard 

The  melodious  voice  of  an  unseen  bird, 
And  so  clear  and  so  brave  that  your  heart  was 

stirred  ; 

It  seemed  to  be  Faith  set  anew  to  a  song, 

That  the  weakest  of  things  need  never  fear  wrong 

If  they  only  believe  in  the  true  and  the  strong. 


"  A  TLANTIC.n  173 

In  that  bitterer  storm,  when  the  plunge  of  the 

wreck 
Tossed  the  white  forms  at  will  that  were  strewing 

the  deck, 
As  the  foam -flakes  are  tossed  on  a  war-horse's 

neck, 

And  men  growing  grim  in  their  hunger  for  life, 
And  husband  in  frenzy  abandoning  wife 
To  struggle  alone  in  the  desperate  strife, 

Then  a  voice  brave  and  young  rose  sweet  through 

the  din : 

"  Lend  a  hand  !  I  'm  alone  with  a  lifetime  to  win ! " 
'T  was  the  song  of  an  angel  rebuking  the  sin. 

Then  the  brute  that 's  in  men  slunk  back  to  its 

lair — 
Strong  fingers   were  wound  in   the  boy's   curly 

hair  — 
"  Pass  the  lad  right  along !     My  chance  he  shall 

share ! " 


THE  CAVALRY  CHARGE 

T  T  ARK  !  the  rattling  roll  of  the  musketeers, 
•••  -*•      And  the  ruffled  drums 'and  the  rallying 

cheers, 

And  the  rifles  burn  with  a  keen  desire 
Like  the  crackling  whips  of  a  Hemlock  fire, 
And  the  singing  shot  and  the  shrieking  shell 
And  the  splintered  fire  of  the  shattered  hell, 
And  the  great  white  breaths  of  the  cannon  smoke 
As  the  growling  guns  by  batteries  spoke  ; 
And  the  ragged  gaps  in  the  walls  of  blue 
Where  the  iron  surge  rolled  heavily  through, 
That  the  Colonel  builds  with  a  breath  again 
As  he  cleaves  the  din  with  his  "  Close  up,  men ! " 
And  the  groan  torn  out  from  the  blacken'd  lips, 
And  the  prayer  doled  slow  with  the  crimson  drips, 
And  the  beaming  look  in  the  dying  eye 
As  under  the  cloud  the  STARS  go  by, 

174 


THE    CAVALRY  CHARGE.  175 

"  But  his  soul  marched  on,"  the  Captain  said, 
For  the  Boy  in  Blue  can  never  be  dead ! 


And  the  troopers  sit  in  their  saddles  all 

Like  statues  carved  in  an  ancient  hall, 

And  they  watch  the  whirl  from  their  breathless 

ranks, 

And  their  spurs  are  close  to  the  horses'  flanks, 
And  the  fingers  work  of  the  sabre  hand — 
Oh,  to  bid  them  live,  and  to  make  them  grand ! 
And  the  bugle  sounds  to  the  charge  at  last,^ 
And  away  they  plunge  and  the  front  is  passed  ! 
And  the  jackets  blue  grow  red  as  they  ride, 
And  the  scabbards  too,  that  clank  by  their  side, 
And  the  dead  soldiers  deaden  the  strokes  iron  shod 
As  they  gallop  right  on  o'er  the  plashy  red  sod — 
Right  into  the  cloud  all  spectral  and  dim, 
Right  up  to  the  guns  black  -  throated  and  grim, 
Right  down  on  the  hedges  bordered  with  steel, 
Right  through  the  dense  columns,  then  "  right 

about  wheel ! " 

Hurrah  !    A  new  swath  through  the  harvest  again ! 
Hurrah  for  the  Flag  !     To  the  battle,  Amen  ! 


FORT  DEARBORN. 
THE  OLD—  October  %th,  '71.      THE  NEW  —  October  8tA,  '73. 

T)ORN  of  the  prairie  and  the  wave  —  the  blue 
-*-*     sea  and  the  green, 

A  city  of  the  Occident,  CHICAGO  lay  between  ; 
Dim  trails  upon  the  meadow,  faint  wakes  upon 

the  main, 
On  either  sea  a  schooner  and  a  canvas  -  covered 

wain. 

I  saw  a  dot  upon  the  map,  and  a  house  -  fly's  filmy 
wing — 

They  said  'twas  Dearborn's  picket -flag  when 
Wilderness  was  king ; 

I  heard  the  reed -bird's  morning  song  —  the  In 
dian's  awkward  flail  — 

The  rice  tattoo  in  his  rude  canoe  like  a  dash  of 
April  hail — 

176 


FORT  DEARBORN.  177 

The  beaded  grasses'  rustling  bend — the  swash  of 

the  lazy  tide, 
Where  ships  shake  out  the  salted  sails  and  navies 

grandly  ride  I 

I  heard  the  Block  -  house  gates  unbar,  the  column's 

solemn  tread, 
I  saw  the  Tree  of  a  single  leaf  its  splendid  foliage 

shed 
To   wave   awhile  that   August  morn  above  the 

column's  head ; 
I  heard  the  moan  of  muffled  drum,  the  woman's 

wail  of  fife, 
The  Dead  March  played  for  Dearborn's  men  just 

marching  out  of  life, 
The  swooping  of  the  savage  cloud  that  burst  upon 

the  rank 
And  struck  it  with  its  thunderbolt  in  forehead  and 

in  flank, 
The  spatter  of  the  musket  -  shot,  the  rifles'  whistling 

rain  — 
The  sand  -  hills  drift  round  hope  forlorn  that  never 

marched  again  ! 
L 


178  FORT  DEARBORN. 

I  SEE  in  tasseled  rank  and  file  the  regiments  of 

corn, 
Their  bending  sabres,  millions  strong,  salute  .the 

summer  morn  ; 
The  harvest -fields,  as  round  and  red  as  full-grown 

harvest  -  moon, 
That  fill  the  broad  horizons  up  with  mimic  gold  of 

noon  ; 
I  count  a  thousand  villages  like  flocks  in  pastures 

grand, 
I  hear  the  roar  of  caravans  through  all  the  blessed 

land  — 
CHICAGO  grasps  the  ripened  year  and  holds  it  in 

her  hand ! 
"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread ! "  the  planet's 

Christian  prayer  ; 
CHICAGO,   with  her  open   palm,   makes   answer 

everywhere ! 

I  hear  the  march  of  multitudes  who  said  the  map 

was  wrong  — 
They  drew  the  net  of  Longitude  and  brought  it 

right  along, 


FORT  DEARBORN.  179 

And   swung  a  great   Meridian   Line   across   the 

Foundling's  breast, 
And  the  city  of  the  Occident  was  neither  East 

nor  West ! 
Her  charter  is  no  dainty  thing  of  parchment  and 

of  pen, 
But  written  on  the  prairie's  page  by  full  a  million 

men  ; 

They  use  the  ploughshare  and  the  spade,  and  end 
less  furrows  run, 
Line  after  line  the  record  grows,  and  yet  is  just 

begun ; 
They  rive  the  pines  of  Michigan  and  give  them  to 

the  breeze  — 
The    keel -drawn   Charter's    draft  inscribes   the 

necklace  of  the  seas, 
'Tis  rudely  sketched  in  anthracite,  engraved  on 

copper  plate, 
And  traced  across  the  Continent  to  Ophir's  Golden 

Gate! 
The  Lord's  Recording  Angel  holds  the  Charter  in 

his  hand  — 
He  seals  it  on  the  sea,  and  he  signs  it  on  the  land ! 


180  FORT  DEARBORN. 

Unroll  the  royal  Charter  now!     It   "marches" 

with  the  West, 
Embossed  along  its  far  frontier,    Sierra's   silver 

crest ; 
Along  its  hither  border  shines  a  sacred  crystal 

chain : 
God  cursed  of  old  the  weedy  ground,  but  never 

cursed  the  main, 
As  free  to -day  from  earthly  sin  as  Eden's  early 

rain ! 

"  I  found  a  Rome  of  common  clay,"  Imperial 
Caesar  cried  ; 

"  I  left  a  Rome  of  marble  ! "  No  other  Rome  be 
side  ! 

The  ages  wrote  their  autographs  along  the  sculp 
tured  stone  — 

The  golden  eagles  flew  abroad  —  Augustan  splen 
dors  shone  — 

They  made  a  Roman  of  the  world  !  They  trailed 
the  classic  robe, 

And  flung  the  Latin  toga  around  the  naked 
globe  ! 


FORT  DEARBORN.  181 

"  I  found  Chicago  wood  and  clay,"  a  mightier 

Kaiser  said, 
Then  flung  upon  the  sleeping  mart  his  royal  robes 

of  red, 
And  temple,  dome,  and  colonnade,  and  monument 

and  spire, 

Put  on  the  crimson  livery  of  dreadful  Kaiser  Fire ! 
The  stately  piles  of  polished  stone  were  shattered 

into  sand, 
And  madly  drove  the  dread  simoon,  and  snowed 

them  on  the  land  ! 
And  rained  them  till  the  sea  was  red,  and  scorched 

the  wings  of  prayer  ! 

Like  thistle  -  down  ten  thousand  homes  went  drift 
ing  through  the  air, 
And  dumb  Dismay  walked  hand  in  hand   with 

frozen -eyed  Despair! 
CHICAGO  vanished  in  a  cloud — the  towers  were 

storms  of  sleet, 
Lo !  ruins  of  a  thousand  years  along  the  spectral 

street ! 
The  night  burned  out  between  the  days !     The 

ashen  hoar-frost  fell, 


182  FORT  DEARBORN. 

As  if  some  demon  set  ajar  the  bolted  gates  of  hell, 
And  let  the  molten  billows  break  the  adamantine 

bars, 
And  roll  the  smoke  of  torment  up  to  smother  out 

the  stars ! 
The  low,  dull  growl  of  powder  -  blasts  just  dotted 

off  the  din, 
As  if  they  tolled  for  perished  clocks  the  time  that 

might  have  been  ! 
The  thunder  of  the  fiery  surf  roared  human  accents 

dumb  ; 
The   trumpet's  clangor  died  away  a  wild  bee's 

drowsy  hum, 
And  breakers  beat  the  empty  world  that  rumbled 

like  a  drum. 
O  cities  of  the  Silent  Land  !     O  Graceland  and 

Rosehill ! 
No  tombs  without  their  tenantry  ?     The  pale  host 

sleeping  still  ? 
Your  marble  thresholds  dawning  red  with  holo- 

caustal  glare, 

As  if  the  Waking  Angel's  foot  were  set  upon  the 
.      stair ! 


FORT  DEARBORN. 

But  ah,  the  human  multitudes  that  marched  before 
the  flame, 

As  'mid  the  Red  Sea's  wavy  walls  the  ancient 
people  came  ! 

Behind,  the  rattling  chariots !  the  Pharaoh  of  Fire ! 

The  rallying  volley  of  the  whips — the  jarring  of 
the  tire ! 

Looked  round,  and  saw  the  homeless  world  as 
dismal  as  a  pyre  — 

Looked  up,  and  saw  God's  blessed  Blue  a  firma 
ment  so  dire  ! 

As  in  the  days  of  burning  Troy,  when  Virgil's 
hero  fled, 

So  gray  and  trembling  pilgrims  found  some  younger 
feet  instead, 

That  bore  them  through  the  wilderness  with  bold 
elastic  stride, 

And  Ruth  and  Rachel,  pale  and  brave,  in  silence 
walked  beside  ; 

Those  Bible  girls  of  Judah's  day  did  make  that 
day  sublime  — 

Leave  life  but  them,  no  other  loss  can  ever  bank 
rupt  Time  ! 


184  FORT  DEARBORN. 

Men  stood  and  saw  their  all  caught  up  in  chariots 

of  flame  — 
No  mantle  falling  from  the  sky  .they  ever  thought 

to  claim, 
And  empty  -  handed  as  the  dead,  they  turned  away 

and  smiled, 
And  bore  a  stranger's  household  gods  and  saved  a 

stranger's  child  ! 
What  valor  brightened  into  shape,  like  statues  in 

a  hall, 
When  on  their  dusky  panoply  the  blazing  torches 

fall, 
Stood  bravely  out  and  saw  the  world  spread  wings 

of  fiery  flight, 
And  not  a  trinket  of  a  star  to  crown  disastered 

night ! 

"  Who  runs  these  lines  of  telegraph  ?  "  A  clock- 
tick  made  reply : 

"  l  The  greatest  of  the  three '  has  brought  this 
message  from  the  sky, 

"  €f)e  SLotfc  toill  sent  an  angel  fcoton  to  tootfe  tijese 
lines  to="baj?!" 


FORT  DEARBORN.  185 

Charge  all  the  batteries  good  and  strong  !     Give 

GOD  the  right  of  way ! 

And  so  the  swift  evangels  ran  by  telegraphic  time, 
And  brought  the  cheer  of  Christendom  from  every 

earthly  clime  ; 
Celestial  fire  flashed  round  the  globe,  from  Norway 

to  Japan, 
Proclaimed  the  MANhood  of  the  race,  the  BROTHEB- 

hood  of  man  ! 
Then  flashed  a  hundred  engines'  arms — then  flew 

the  lightning  trains  ; 
They  had  that  day  the  right  of  way — gave  every 

steed  the  reins  — 
The  minutes  came,  the  minutes  went — the  miles 

fled  just  the  same  — 
And  flung  along  October  night  their  starry  flags 

of  flame  ! 
They  all  were  angels  in  disguise,  from  hamlet, 

field,  and  mart, 
CHICAGO'S  fire  had  warmed  the  World  that  had 

her  woe  by  heart. 
"  Who  is  my  neighbor?"    One  and  all  :  "  We  see 

her  signal  light, 


186  FORT  DEARBORN. 

"  And  She  our  only  neighbor  now,  this  wild  Octo 
ber  night!" 

"  I  found  CHICAGO  wood  and   clay,"  the  royal 

Kaiser  cried, 
And  flung  upon  the  sleeping  mart  the  mantle  in 

his  pride ; 
It  lay  awhile  —  he  lifted  it,  and  there  beneath  the 

robe 

A  city  done  in  lithograph,  the  wonder  of  the  globe ; 
Where  granite  grain  and  marble  heart,  in  strength 

and  beauty  wed, — 
"•  I  leave  a  mart  of  palaces,"  the  haughty  Kaiser 

said. 

Now,  thanks  to  GOD,  this  blessed  day,  to  whom 

all  thanks  belong — 
The  clash  of  silver  cymbals,  the  rhyme  of  the  little 

song — 
Whose  Hand  did  hive  the  golden  bees  that  swarm 

the  azure  dome, 
Whence    honey -dews    forever   fall   around    this 

earthly  home  — 


FORT  DEARBORN. 

Did  constellate  the  prairie  sod  and  light  it  up  with 
flowers  — 

That  Hand  defend  from  fire  and  flood  this  Prairie 
Flower  of  ours  ! 

This  volume  of  the  royal  West  we  bring  in  grate 
ful  gage, 

We  open  at  the  frontispiece  and  give  it  to  the  Age, 

Who  wrote  the  word  CHICAGO  twice  upon  the 
title  -  page ! 


THE  ISLE  OF  THE  LONG  AGO. 

,  a  wonderful  stream  is  the  River  Time, 
As  it  flows  through  the  realm  of  Tears, 
With  a  faultless  rhythm  and  a  musical  rhyme, 
And  a  broader  sweep  and  a  surge  sublime 
As  it  blends  with  the  ocean  of  Years. 

ii. 
How  the  winters  are  drifting  like  flakes  of  snow  ! 

And  the  summers  like  buds  between  ; 
And  the  year  in  the  sheaf — so  they  come  and 

they  go 

On  the  River's  breast  with  its  ebb  and  flow, 
As  they  glide  in  the  shadow  and  sheen. 

in. 
There  's  a  magical  Isle  up  the  River  Time 

Where  the  softest  of  airs  are  playing  ; 
There  's  a  cloudless  sky  and  a  tropical  clime, 
And  a  voice  as  sweet  as  a  vesper  chime. 

And  the  Junes  with  the  roses  are  staying. 

188 


THE  ISLE   OF   THE  LONG  AGO.  189 

IV. 

And  the  name  of  this  Isle  is  the  Long  Ago, 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  there  ; 
There  are  brows  of  beauty  and  bosoms  of  snow  — 
They  are  heaps  of  dust,  but  we  loved  them  so  ! 
There  are  trinkets  and  tresses  of  hair. 

v. 

There  are  fragments  of  song  that  nobody  sings, 

And  a  part  of  an  infant's  prayer, 
There  's  a  harp  unswept  and  a  lute  without  strings, 
There  are  broken  vows  and  pieces  of  rings, 

And  the  garments  that  she  used  to  wear. 

VI. 

There  are  hands  that  are  waved  when  the  fairy 
shore 

By  the  mirage  is  lifted  in  air  ; 
And  we  sometimes  hear  through  the  turbulent 

roar 
Sweet  voices  we  heard  in  the  days  gone  before, 

When  the  wind  down  the  River  is  fair. 


190  THE  ISLE   OF    THE  LONG  AGO. 

VII. 

Oh,  remembered  for  aye  be  the  blessed  Isle 

All  the  day  of  our  life  till  night, 
And  when  evening  comes  with  its  beautiful  smile, 
And  our  eyes  are  closing  in  slumber  awhile, 

May  that  "  GREENWOOD  "  of  soul  be  in  sight. 


THE  ROSE  AND    THE  ROBIN. 

'  I  ^HE  yellow  rose  leaves  falling  down 

Pay  golden  toll  to  passing  June, 
The  robin's  breast  of  golden  brown 
Is  trembling  with  an  ancient  tune. 

The  rose  will  bloom  another  year, 
The  robin  and  his  wife  will  come, 

But  he  who  sees  may  not  be  here, 
And  he  who  sings  be  dumb. 

Thy  grace  be  mine,  oh  yellow  rose  ! 

My  heart  like  thine  its  blossoms  shed, 
Grow  fragrant  to  the  fragrant  close, 

And  sweetest  when  I  'm  dead. 

And  so  like  thee  1 11  pay  my  way 
In  coin  that  time  can  never  rust, 

And  footsteps  sound  another  day 
Though  feet  have  turned  to  dust ! 

191 


192  THE  ROSE  AND    THE  ROBIN. 

Thy  gift  be  mine,  oh  singing  bird  ! 

My  song  like  thine  round  home  and  heart 
To  Song,  God  never  said  the  word 

"  To  dust  return,  for  dust  thou  art ! " 


NOTES. 


TORNADO  SUNDAY. —  The  memorable  tornado  that  swept  over 
Iowa,  destroying  the  village  of  Camanche  and  leaving  across  the 
State  a  broad  track  of  death  and  desolation.  A  meeting  for  the 
relief  of  the  sufferers  was  held  in  Chicago,  and  the  poem  was 
written  for  the  occasion. 

THE  HERO  OF  NEW  HAMBURG. —  On  the  night  of  February 
6th,  1871,  an  oil  train  was  wrecked  on  the  track  near  the  bridge 
at  New  Hamburg,  on  the  Hudson  River  Railroad.  The  Express 
train  bound  West  ran  into  the  wreck,  the  bridge  took  fire  and  fell, 
and  twenty  -  one  persons  in  the  Buffalo  sleeping  car  were  killed. 
The  Engineer,  E.  H.  SIMMONS,  remained  upon  his  engine,  doing 
what  he  could  to  avert  the  threatened  disaster,  and  failing  in  this, 
looked  death  in  the  face,  chose  it  to  desertion,  and  perished  at  his 
post. 

GOING  HOME.  —  A  poor  disheartened  emigrant  returning  to  his 
Eastern  home  from  the  far  West,  met  in  the  streets  of  La  Porte, 
Indiana,  a  hearse  on  its  way  to  the  City  of  the  Silent.  He  turned 
aside,  halted,  and,  with  his  wife  and  children,  watched  the  sad 
procession.  The  poor  fellow  had  told  his  story  to  some  one  never 
suspected  of  a  spark  of  poetry,  who,  as  he  watched  the  meeting 
from  the  sidewalk,  said,  "  Well,  one  is  going  East  and  the  other 
going  West,  but  they  "re  bound  the  same  way  after  all  —  both  going 
home  ! " 

THE  VANE  ON  THE  SPIRE. — During  the  bitter  and  death-dealing 
days  of  the  winter  and  spring  of  1872  I  often  watched  the  gilded 
193 


194  NOTES. 

arrow  that  swings  upon  the  spire  of  the  Methodist  Church.  And 
it  always  had  a  meaning  for  me  —  sometimes  sad,  a  few  times  glad, 
and  always  true.  Day  after  day,  week  after  week,  that  arrow 
pointed  North  —  pointed  East :  always  North,  always  East  —  like 
the  finger  of  Fate.  The  chill  winds  blew  ;  the  cold  storms  came  ; 
there  were  beds  of  languishing  ;  there  were  new-made  graves. 
Frost,  sorrow,  and  death  ruled  the  air  in  company.  And  all  the 
while,  the  arrow  told  the  story. 

At  last  there  came  some  genial  days,  when  flowers  blossomed, 
birds  sang,  the  weak  grew  strong,  and  the  graves  were  green. 

The  arrow  on  the  spire  had  swung  round  to  the  South  ;  it  told 
the  story  still.  It  was  no  longer  the  finger  of  Fate,  but  a  thing  of 
beauty  —  a  piece  of  aerial  jewelry.  It  had  eloquence  enough  to 
inspire  a  little  song,  had  there  been  anybody  to  write  it. 

FIRE  AND  WATER. — All  being  ready  to  connect  the  two  grand 
divisions  of  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad,  delegations  from  the 
Atlantic  and  Pacific  coasts  met,  and  the  last  spike  was  driven  with 
simple  but  impressive  ceremonies.  The  tie  was  silver-bound 
laurel  and  the  spike  of  California!!  gold.  The  wires  of  the  tele 
graph  were  so  connected  that  the  fall  of  the  hammer  was  echoed 
at  nearly  the  same  instant  in  offices  thousands  of  miles  away. 

"  ATLANTIC." — The  steamship  "  Atlantic,"  struck  a  rock  on  the 
morning  of  April  ist,  1873,  and  was  wrecked,  with  a  fearful  sacri 
fice  of  human  life.  The  ship  was  out  of  her  course,  and  if  any 
reason  existed  for  the  fatal  variation  it  was  the  fear  that  the  supply 
of  coal  was  insufficient  to  take  it  into  its  destined  port.  The  inci 
dent  of  the  saving  of  the  lad,  John  Hanly,  awakened  universal 
interest  and  sympathy. 


, 


«  f  S.?U.Tli.ERN  REG|ONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001242012 


oung  Research  Library 

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